Sir  Quixote 

of  the  Moors 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


SIR  QUIXOTE  OF  THE 
MOORS 


BUCKRAM  SERIES.  S. 

SIR  QUIXOTE  OF  THE  MOORS. 
A  Scotch  Romance.     By  John  Buchan. 

LADY  BONNIE'S  EXPERIMENT. 

A  quaint  pastoral.     By  Tighe  Hopkins. 

KAFIR  STORIES. 

Tales  of  adventure.     By  Wm.  Chas.  Scully. 

THE  MASTER-KNOT 

And  "  Another  .Story."     By  CONOVER  DuFF. 

THE  TIME  MACHINE. 

The  Story  of  an  Invention.     By  H.  G.  Wells. 

THE  PRISONER  OF  ZENDA.   {^tst  Ed.) 

By  Anthony  Hope.     A  stirring  romance. 

THE  INDISCRETION  of  the  DUCHESS. 

By  Anthony  Hope,     {itk  Edition^ 

TENEMENT  TALES  OF  NEW  YORK. 
By  J.  W.  Sullivan. 

SLUM  STORIES  OF  LONDON. 

(Neighbors  of  Ours.)    By  H.  W.  Nevinson. 
THE  WAYS  OF  YALE,     isth  Edition.) 

Sketches,  mainly  humorous.    By  H.  A.  Beers. 

A  SUBURBAN  VkS'XOKKL.isth Edition.) 

American  stories.     By  Henry  A.  Beeks. 
JACK   O'DOON.    i-zd  Edition.) 

An  American  novel.     By  Maria  Beale. 

QUAKER  IDYLS,    {.^th  Edition:) 

By  Mrs.  S.  M.  H.  Gardner. 
A  MAN  OF  MARK.    i(>th  Edition:) 

A  South  American  tale.     By  Anthony  Hope. 
SPORT   ROYAL,     i-^d  Edition.) 
And  Other  Stories.     By  Anthony  Hope. 

THE  DOLLY  DIALOGUES,  iith  Edition.) 

By  Anthony  Hope. 
A  CHANGE  OF  AIR.    (8M  Edition.) 
By   Anthony    Hope.     With  portrait. 

JOHN  INGERFIELD.  (5M  Edition.) 
A  love  tragedy.    By  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO..  New  York. 


SIR  QUIXOTE 

OF  THE  MOORS 


BEING  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  AN 

EPISODE    IN    THE   LIFE    OF 

THE  SI  EUR  DE  ROHAINE 


BY 

JOHN   BUCHAN 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1895 


/8'9S 


Copyright,  1895, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE   MERSMON    COMPANY    PRESS, 
RAHWAY,   N.   I. 


TO 

GILBERT   MURRAY 

WHATSOEVER  IN  THIS  BOOK   IS  NOT 

WORTHLESS   IS   DEDICATED 

BY   HIS  FRIEND. 


PREFACE. 


The  narrative,  now  for  the 
first  time  presented  to  the  world, 
was  written  by  the  Sieur  de 
Rohaine  to  while  away  the 
time  during  the  long  period  and 
painful  captivity,  borne  with 
heroic  resolution,  which  pre- 
ceded his  death.  He  chose  the 
English  tongue,  in  which  he 
was  extraordinarily  proficient, 
for  two  reasons  :  first,  as  an  ex- 
ercise in  the  language  ;  second, 
because  he  desired  to  keep  the 
passages  here  recorded  from  the 
knowledge  of  certain  of  his  kins- 


VI 11  PREFACE. 

folk  in  France.  Few  changes 
have  been  made  in  his  work. 
Now  and  then  an  EngHsh  idiom 
has  been  substituted  for  a 
French;  certain  tortuous  ex- 
pressions have  been  emended; 
and  in  general  the  portions  in 
the  Scots  dialect  have  been 
rewritten,  since  the  author's 
knowledge  of  this  manner  of 
speech  seems  scarcely  to  have 
been  so  great  as  he  himself 
thought. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  ^''^^ 

I.     On  the  High  Moors,     .  i 

II.     I  Fare  Badly  Indoors,  27 

III.  I  Fare  Badly  Abroad,  .  58 

IV,  Of  my  Coming   to   Lin- 

dean,     ....  76 

V.     I  Pledge  my  Word,        .  100 

VI.     Idle  Days,       .        .        •  i34 
VII.     A    Daughter   of   Hero- 

DIAS,        .  .  •  -155 

VIII.     How  I  Set  the  Signal,  174 

IX.    I  Commune  with  Myself,  202 

X.    Of  my  Departure,          .  222 


SIR  QUIXOTE  OF  THE 
MOORS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON   THE   HIGH    MOORS. 

EFORE  me  stretched  a 
black  heath,  over  which 
the  mist  blew  in  gusts, 
and  through  whose  midst  the 
road  crept  like  an  adder. 
Great  storm-marked  hills 
flanked  me  on  either  side, 
and  since  I  set  out  I  had  seen 
their  harsh  outline  against  a 
thick  sky,  until  I  longed  for 
flat  ground  to  rest  my  sight 
upon.     The    way    was     damp. 


2  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

and  the  soft  mountain  gravel 
sank  under  my  horse's  feet  ; 
and  ever  and  anon  my  legs  were 
splashed  by  the  water  from 
some  pool  which  the  rain  had 
left.  Shrill  mountain  birds  flew 
around,  and  sent  their  cries 
through  the  cold  air.  Some- 
times the  fog  would  lift  for  a 
moment  from  the  face  of  the 
land  and  show  me  a  hilltop  or 
the  leaden  glimmer  of  a  loch, 
but  nothing  more — no  green 
field  or  homestead  ;  only  a  bar- 
ren and  accursed  desert. 

Neither  horse  nor  man  was 
in  any  spirit.  My  back  ached, 
and  I  shivered  in  my  sodden 
garments,  while  my  eyes  were 
dim  from  gazing  on  flying 
clouds.     The  poor  beast  stum- 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.         3 

bled  often,  for  he  had  traveled 
far  on  little  fodder,  and  a  hill- 
road  was  a  new  thing  in  his  ex- 
perience. Saladin  I  called  him — 
for  I  had  fancied  that  there  was 
something  Turkish  about  his 
black  face,  with  the  heavy  tur- 
ban-like band  above  his  fore- 
head— in  my  old  fortunate  days 
when  I  bought  him.  He  was 
a  fine  horse  of  the  Normandy 
breed,  and  had  carried  me  on 
many  a  wild  journey,  though 
on  none  so  forlorn  as  this. 

But  to  speak  of  myself.  I 
am  Jean  de  Rohaine,  at  your 
service  ;  Sieur  de  Rohaine  in  the 
province  of  Touraine — a  gen- 
tleman, I  trust,  though  one  in  a 
sorry  plight.  And  how  I  came 
to  be  in  the  wild  highlands  of 


4  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the  place  called  Galloway,  in 
the  bare  kingdom  of  Scotland,  I 
must  haste  to  tell.  In  the  old 
days,  when  I  had  lived  as  be- 
came my  rank  in  my  native 
land,  I  had  met  a  Scot, — one 
Kennedy  by  name, — a  great 
man  in  his  own  country,  with 
whom  I  struck  up  an  intimate 
friendship.  He  and  I  were  as 
brothers,  and  he  swore  that  if  I 
came  to  visit  him  in  his  own 
home  he  would  see  to  it  that  I 
should  have  the  best.  I  thanked 
him  at  the  time  for  his  bidding, 
but  thought  little  more  of  it. 

Now,  by  ill  fortune,  the  time 
came  when,  what  with  gaming 
and  pleasuring,  I  was  a  beg- 
gared man,  and  I  bethought  me 
of  the  Scot's  offer     I  had  liked 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.        5 

the  man  well,  and  I  considered 
how  it  would  be  no  ill  thing  to 
abide  in  that  country  till  I 
should  find  some  means  of  bet- 
tering my  affairs.  So  I  took  ship 
and  came  to  the  town  of  Ayr, 
from  which  'twas  but  a  day's  ride 
to  the  house  of  my  friend.  'Twas 
in  midsummer  when  I  landed, 
and  the  place  looked  not  so 
bare  as  I  had  feared,  as  I  rode 
along  between  green  meadows 
to  my  destination.  There  I 
found  Quentin  Kennedy,  some- 
what grown  old  and  more  full 
in  flesh  than  I  remembered  him 
in  the  past.  He  had  been  a 
tall,  black-avised  man  when  I 
first  knew  him  ;  now  he  was 
grizzled, — whether  from  hard 
living  or  the  harshness  of  north- 


6  S//^  QUIXOTE. 

ern  weather  I  know  not, — and 
heavier  than  a  man  of  action  is 
wont  to  be.  He  greeted  me 
most  hospitably,  putting  his 
house  at  my  bidding,  and  swear- 
ing that  I  should  abide  and 
keep  him  company  and  go  no 
more  back  to  the  South. 

So  for  near  a  month  I  stayed 
there,  and  such  a  time  of  riot 
and  hilarity  I  scarce  remember. 
Mou  Dieii,  but  the  feasting  and 
the  sporting  would  have  re- 
joiced the  hearts  of  my  com- 
rades of  the  Rue  Margot !  I 
had  already  learned  much  of 
the  Scots  tongue  at  the  college 
in  Paris,  where  every  second 
man  hails  from  this  land,  and 
now  I  was  soon  perfect  in  it, 
speaking  it  all  but  as  well  as 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.         7 

my  host.  'Tis  a  gift  I  have, 
for  I  well  remember  how,  when 
I  consorted  for  some  months 
in  the  low  countries  with  an 
Italian  of  Milan,  I  picked  up  a 
fair  knowledge  of  his  speech. 
So  now  I  found  mys*elf  in  the 
midst  of  men  of  spirit,  and  a 
rare  life  we  led.  The  gentle- 
men of  the  place  would  come 
much  about  the  house,  and  I 
promise  you  'twas  not  seldom 
we  saw  the  morning  in  as  we 
sat  at  wine.  There  was,  too,  the 
greatest  sport  at  coursing  and 
hunting  the  deer  in  Kennedy's 
lands  by  the  Water  of  Doon. 

Yet  there  was  that  I  liked 
not  among  the  fellows  who 
came  thither,  nay,  even  in  my 
friend    himself.      We     have    a 


8  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

proverb  in  France  that  the  devil 
when  he  spoils  a  German  in  the 
making  turns  him  into  a  Scot, 
and  for  certain  there  was  much 
boorishness  among  them,  which 
to  my  mind  sits  ill  on  gentle- 
men. They  would  jest  at  one 
another  till  I  thought  that  in  a 
twinkling  swords  would  be  out, 
and  lo  !  I  soon  found  that  'twas 
but  done  for  sport,  and  with  no 
evil  intent.  They  were  clown- 
ish in  their  understanding,  little 
recking  of  the  feelings  of  a  man 
of  honor,  but  quick  to  grow 
fierce  on  some  tittle  of  provo- 
cation which  another  would 
scarce  notice.  Indeed,  'tis  my 
belief  that  one  of  this  nation  is 
best  in  his  youth,  for  Kennedy, 
whom  I  well  remembered  as  a 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.         9 

man  of  courage  and  breeding, 
had  grown  grosser  and  more 
sottish  with  his  years,  till  I  was 
fain  to  ask  where  was  my  friend 
of  the  past. 

And  now  I  come  to  that 
which  brought  on  my  departure 
and  my  misfortunes.  'Twas 
one  night  as  I  returned  weary 
from  riding  after  a  stag  in  the 
haugh  by  the  river,  that  Quen- 
tin  cried  hastily,  as  I  entered, 
that  now  he  had  found  some- 
thing worthy  of  my  attention. 

**  To-morrow,  Jock,"  says  he, 
"  you  will  see  sport.  There 
has  been  some  cursed  commo- 
tion among  the  folk  of  the  hills, 
and  I  am  out  the  morrow  to 
redd  the  marches.  You  shall 
have  a  troop  of  horse  and  ride 


lo  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

with  me,  and,  God's  death,  we 
will  have  a  taste  of  better 
work !  " 

I  cried  out  that  I  could  have 
asked  'for  naught  better,  and, 
indeed,  I  was  overjoyed  that 
the  hard  drinking  and  idleness 
were  at  an  end,  and  that  the 
rigors  of  warfare  lay  before 
me.  For  I  am  a  soldier  by 
birth  and  by  profession,  and  I 
love  the  jingle  of  steel  and  the 
rush  of  battle. 

So,  on  the  morrow,  I  rode  to 
the  mountains  with  a  score  of 
dragoons  behind  me,  glad  and 
hopeful.  Diable !  How  shall 
I  tell  my  disappointment? 
The  first  day  I  had  seen  all — 
and  more  than  I  wished.  We 
fought,  not  with  men  like  our- 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.       1 1 

selves,  but  with  women  and 
children  and  unarmed  yokels, 
and  butchered  like  Cossacks 
more  than  Christians.  I  grew 
sick  of  the  work,  and  would 
have  none  of  it,  but  led  my 
men  to  the  rendezvous  sullenly, 
and  hot  at  heart.  'Twas  well 
the  night  was  late  when  we 
arrived,  else  I  should  have  met 
with  Kennedy  there  and  then, 
and  God  knows  what  might 
have  happened. 

The  next  day,  in  a  great  fit 
of  loathing,  I  followed  my  host 
again,  hoping  that  the  worst 
was  over,  and  that  henceforth  I 
should  have  something  more  to 
my  stomach.  But  little  I  knew 
of  the  men  with  whom  I  jour- 
neyed.    There    was   a   cottage 


12  S/J?  QUIXOTE. 

there,  a  shepherd's  house,  and 
God  !  they  burned  it  down,  and 
the  man  they  shot  before  his 
wife  and  children,  speaking 
naught  to  him  but  foul-mouthed 
reproaches  and  jabber  about 
some  creed  which  was  strange 
to  me.  I  could  not  prevent  it, 
though  'twas  all  that  I  could  do 
to  keep  myself  from  a  mad 
attack. 

I  rode  up  to  Quentin  Ken- 
nedy. 

"Sir,"  I  said,  "I  have  had 
great  kindness  at  your  hands, 
but  you  and  I  must  part.  I 
see  that  we  are  made  of  differ- 
ent stuff.  I  can  endure  war, 
but  not  massacre." 

He  laughed  at  my  scruples, 
incredulous  of  my  purpose,  un- 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.       13 

til  at  last  he  saw  that  I  was 
fixed  in  my  determination. 
Then  he  spoke  half  kindly  : 

"  This  is  a  small  matter  to 
stand  between  me  and  thee.  I 
am  a  servant  of  the  king,  and 
but  do  my  duty.  I  little 
thought  to  have  disloyalty 
preached  from  your  lips ;  but 
bide  with  me,  and  I  promise 
that  you  shall  see  no  more  of  it." 

But  my  anger  was  too  great, 
and  I  would  have  none  of  him. 
Then — and  now  I  marvel  at  the 
man's  forbearance — he  offered 
me  money  to  recompense  me 
for  my  trouble.  'Twas  honestly 
meant,  and  oft  have  I  regretted 
my  action,  but  to  me  in  my 
fury  in  seemed  but  an  added 
insult. 


14  Sm  QUIXOTE. 

"  Nay,"  said  I  angrily  ;  "  I 
take  no  payment  from  butchers. 
I  am  a  gentleman,  if  a  poor 
one. 

At  this  he  flushed  wrathfully, 
and  I  thought  for  an  instant 
that  he  would  have  drawn  on 
me  ;  but  he  refrained,  and  I 
rode  off  alone  among  the  moors. 
I  knew  naught  of  the  land,  and 
I  must  have  taken  the  wrong 
way,  for  noon  found  me  hope- 
lessly mazed  among  a  tangle  of 
rocks  and  hills  and  peat-mosses. 
Verily,  Quentin  Kennedy  had 
taken  the  best  revenge  by  suf- 
fering me  to  follow  my  own 
leading. 

In  the  early  hours  of  my 
journey  my  head  was  in  such  a 
whirl  of  wrath  and  dismay,  that 


ON'  THE  HIGH  MOORS.       15 

I  had  little  power  to  think 
settled  thoughts.  I  was  in  a 
desperate  confusion,  half  angry 
at  my  own  haste,  and  half  bit- 
ter at  the  coldness  of  a  friend 
who  would  permit  a  stranger  to 
ride  off  alone  with  scarce  a 
word  of  regret.  When  I  have 
thought  the  matter  out  in  after 
days,  I  have  been  as  perplexed 
as  ever ;  yet  it  still  seems  to 
me,  though  I  know  not  how, 
that  I  acted  as  any  man  of 
honor  and  heart  would  approve. 
Still  this  thought  was  little 
present  to  me  in  my  discom- 
fort, as  I  plashed  through  the 
sodden  turf. 

I  had  breakfasted  at  Ken- 
nedy's house  of  Dunpeel  in  the 
early  morning,  and  since  I  had 


1 6  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

no  provision  of  any  sort  with 
me,  'twas  not  long  ere  the  bit- 
ing of  hunger  began  to  set  in. 
My  race  is  a  hardy  stock,  used 
to  much  hardships  and   rough 
fare,  but  in  this  inclement  land 
my  heart  failed  me  wholly,  and 
I    grew  sick   and    giddy,    what 
with  the  famishing  and  the  cold 
rain.     For,   though    'twas    late 
August,  the  month    of  harvest 
and  fruit-time  in  my  own    fair 
land,  it  seemed  more  like  win- 
ter.    The  gusts  of  sharp  wind 
came   driving  out  of  the  mist 
and    pierced    me    to    the    very 
marrow.      So    chill    were   they 
that  my  garments  were  of  no 
avail    to    avert    them  ;    being, 
indeed,  of  the  thinnest,  and  cut 
according    to    the    fashion    of 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.        1 7 

fine  cloth  for  summer  wear  at 
the  shows  and  gallantries  of 
the  town.  A  pretty  change, 
thought  I,  from  the  gardens  of 
Versailles  and  the  trim  streets 
of  Paris  to  this  surly  land  ;  and 
sad  it  was  to  see  my  cloak, 
meant  for  no  rougher  breeze 
than  the  gentle  south,  tossed 
and  scattered  by  a  grim  wind. 

I  have  marked  it  often,  and 
here  I  proved  its  truth,  that 
man's  thoughts  turn  always  to 
the  opposites  of  his  present 
state.  Here  was  I,  set  in  the 
most  uncharitable  land  on 
earth  ;  and  yet  ever  before  my 
eyes  would  come  brief  visions 
of  the  gay  country  which  I  had 
forsaken.  In  a  gap  of  hill  I 
fancied  that  I  descried  a  level 


1 8  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

distance  with  sunny  vineyards 
and  rich  orchards,  to  which  I 
must  surely  come  if  I  but  has- 
tened. When  I  stooped  to 
drink  at  a  stream,  I  fancied  ere 
I  drank  it  that  the  water  would 
taste  like  the  Bordeaux  I  was 
wont  to  drink  at  the  little 
hostelry  in  the  Rue  Margot ; 
and  when  the  tasteless  liquid 
once  entered  my  mouth,  the 
disenchantment  was  severe.  I 
met  one  peasant,  an  old  man 
bent  with  toil,  coarse-featured, 
yet  not  without  some  gleams 
of  kindness,  and  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  addressing  him  in 
my  native  tongue.  For  though 
I  could  make  some  shape  at  his 
barbarous  patois,  in  my  present 
distress   it    came   but   uneasily 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.        19 

from  my  lips.  He  stared  at  me 
stupidly,  and  when  I  repeated 
the  question  in  the  English,  he 
made  some  unintelligible  reply, 
and  stumbled  onward  in  his 
way.  I  watched  his  poor  figure 
as  he  walked.  Such,  thought 
I,  are  the  canaille  of  the  land, 
and  'tis  little  wonder  if  their 
bodies  be  misshapen,  and  their 
minds  dull,  for  an  archangel 
would  become  a  boor  if  he 
dwelt  here  for  any  space  of 
time. 

But  enough  of  such  dreams, 
and  God  knows  no  man  had 
ever  less  cause  for  dreaming. 
Where  was  I  to  go,  and  what 
might  my  purpose  be  in  this 
wilderness  which  men  call  the 
world  ?    An  empty  belly  and  a 


20  SII?  QUIXOTE. 

wet  skin  do  not  tend  to  sedate 
thinking,  so  small  wonder  if  I 
saw  little  ahead.  I  was  making 
for  the  end  of  the  earth,  caring 
little  in  what  direction,  weary 
and  sick  of  heart,  with  sharp 
anger  at  the  past,  and  never  a 
hope  for  the  morrow. 

Yet,  even  in  my  direst  days, 
I  have  ever  found  some  grain 
of  expectation  to  console  me. 
I  had  five  crowns  in  my  purse  ; 
little  enough,  but  sufficient  to 
win  me  a  dinner  and  a  bed  at 
some  cheap  hostelry.  So  all 
through  the  gray  afternoon  I 
looked  sharply  for  a  house, 
mistaking  every  monstrous 
bowlder  for  a  gable-end.  I 
cheered  my  heart  with  think- 
ing  of   dainties    to  be   looked 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.       21 

for ;  a  dish  of  boiled  fish,  or  a 
piece  of  mutton  from  one  of 
the  wild-faced  sheep  which 
bounded  ever  and  anon  across 
my  path.  Nay,  I  was  in  no 
mood  to  be  fastidious.  I 
would  e'en  be  content  with  a 
poor  fare,  provided  always  I 
could  succeed  in  swallowing  it, 
for  my  desire  soon  became  less 
for  the  attainment  of  a  pleasure 
than  for  the  alleviation  of  a 
discomfort.  For  I  was  raven- 
ous as  a  hawk,  and  had  it  in 
my  heart  more  than  once  to 
dismount,  and  seek  for  the 
sparse  hill-berries. 

And,  indeed,  this  was  like  to 
have  been  my  predicament,  for 
the  day  grew  late  and  I  came 
no   nearer   a   human  dwelling. 


2  2  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

The  valley  in  which  I  rode 
grew  wider,  about  to  open,  as 
I  thought,  into  the  dale  of  a 
river.  The  hills,  from  rising 
steeply  by  the  wayside,  were 
withdrawn  to  the  distance  of 
maybe  a  mile,  where  they  lifted 
their  faces  through  the  network 
of  the  mist.  All  the  land  be- 
tween them,  save  a  strip  where 
the  road  lay,  was  filled  with  a 
black  marsh,  where  moor  birds 
made  a  most  dreary  wailing. 
It  minded  me  of  the  cries 
of  the  innocents  whom  King 
Herod  slew,  as  I  had  seen  the 
dead  represented  outside  the 
village  church  of  Rohaine  in 
my  far-away  homeland.  My 
heart  grew  sore  with  longing. 
I  had  bartered  my  native  coun- 


ON  THE  HIGH  MOORS.       23 

try    for     the    most    dismal    on 
earth,    and    all     for      nothing. 
Madman    that    I    was,  were    it 
not  better   to  be   a  beggar  in 
France    than    a    horse-captain 
in  any  other  place  ?     I  cursed 
my  folly   sorely,  as  each  fresh 
blast  sent  a  shiver  through  my 
body.   Nor  was  my  horse  in  any 
better    state — Saladin,  whom  I 
had  seen  gayly  decked  at  a  pro- 
cession with  ribbons  and  pretty 
favors,  who  had   carried  me  so 
often    and    so    far,    who    had 
always  fared  on  the  best.     The 
poor   beast    was   in    a    woeful 
plight,  with  his  pasterns  bleed- 
ing   from     the     rough     stones 
and  his  head  bent  with  weari- 
ness.      Verily,    I      pitied    him 
more    than    myself,  and    if    I 


24  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

had  had  a  crust  we  should 
have    shared    it. 

The  night  came  in,  black  as 
a  draw-well  and  stormy  as  the 
Day  of  Doom.  I  had  now  no 
little  trouble  in  picking  out  the 
way  from  among  the  treach- 
erous morasses.  Of  a  sudden 
my  horse  would  have  a  fore- 
foot in  a  pool  of  black  peat- 
water,  from  which  I  would 
scarce,  by  much  pulling,  re- 
cover him.  A  sharp  jag  of 
stone  in  the  way  would  all  but 
bring  him  to  his  knees.  So 
we  dragged  weari fully  along, 
scarce  fearing,  caring,  hoping 
for  anything  in  this  world  or 
another. 

It  was,  I  judge,  an  hour  after 
nightfall,    about    nine    of    the 


O.V  THE  FIIGH  MOORS.       25 

clock,  when  I  fancied  that  some 
glimmer  shot  through  the  thick 
darkness.  I  could  have  clapped 
my  hands  for  joy  had  I  been 
able  ;  but  alas !  these  were  so 
stiff,  that  clapping  was  as  far 
from  me  as  from  a  man  with 
the  palsy. 

"Courage!"  said  I,  "cour- 
age, Saladin !  There  is  yet 
hope  for  us!  " 

The  poor  animal  seemed  to 
share  in  my  expectations.  He 
carried  me  quicker  forward,  so 
that  soon  the  feeble  gleam  had 
grown  to  a  broad  light.  Inn 
or  dwelling,  thought  I,  there  I 
stay,  for  I  will  go  not  a  foot 
further  for  man  or  devil.  My 
sword  must  e'en  be  my /"(j/zrrzVr 
to  get   me   a    night's   lodging. 


26  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

Then  I  saw  the  house,  a  low, 
dark  place,  unillumined  save 
for  that  front  window  which 
shone  as  an  invitation  to  trav- 
elers. In  a  minute  I  was  at 
the  threshold.  There,  in  truth, 
was  the  sign  flapping  above  the 
lintel,  'Twas  an  inn  at  length, 
and  my  heart  leaped  out  in 
gratitude. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I   FARE   BADLY   INDOORS. 

I  DROPPED  wearily 
from  my  horse  and 
stumbled  forward  to 
the  door.  'Twas  close  shut, 
but  rays  of  light  came  through 
the  chinks  at  the  foot,  and  the 
great  light  in  the  further  win- 
dow lit  up  the  ground  for  some 
yards.  I  knocked  loudly  with 
my  sword-hilt.  Stillness  seemed 
to  reign  within,  save  that  from 
some  distant  room  a  faint  sound 
of  men's  voices  was  brought. 
A  most  savory  smell  stole  out 
27 


2  8  S//^  QUIXOTE. 

to  the  raw  air  and  revived  my 
hunger  with  hopes  of  supper. 

Again  I  knocked,  this  time 
rudely,  and  the  door  rattled  on 
its  hinges.  This  brought  some 
signs  of  life  from  within.  I 
could  hear  a  foot  on  the  stone 
floor  of  a  passage,  a  bustling  as 
of  many  folk  running  hither 
and  thither,  and  a  great  bark- 
ing of  a  sheep-dog.  Of  a  sud- 
den the  door  was  flung  open, 
a  warm  blaze  of  light  rushed 
forth,  and  I  stood  blinking  be- 
fore the  master  of  the  house. 

He  was  a  tall,  grizzled  man  of 
maybe  fifty  years,  thin,  with  a 
stoop  in  his  back  that  all  hill- 
folk  have,  and  a  face  brown 
with  sun  and  wind.  I  judged 
him  fifty,  but  he  may  have  been 


I  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      29 

younger  by  ten  years,  for  in 
that  desert  men  age  the  speed- 
ier. His  dress  was  dirty  and 
ragged  in  many  places,  and  in 
one  hand  he  carried  a  pistol, 
which  he  held  before  him  as  if 
for  protection.  He  stared  at 
me  for  a  second. 

"  Wha  are  ye  that  comes  dir- 
lin'  here  on  sic  a  nicht?"  said 
he,  and  I  give  his  speech  as  I 
remember  it.  As  he  uttered 
the  words,  he  looked  me  keenly 
in  the  face,  and  I  felt  his  thin, 
cold  glance  piercing  to  the  roots 
of  my  thoughts.  I  liked  the 
man  ill,  for,  what  with  his  lean 
figure  and  sour  countenance,  he 
was  far  different  from  the  jovial, 
well-groomed  fellows  who  will 
give  you  greeting  at  any  way- 


3°  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

side  inn  from  Calais  to  Bor- 
deaux. 

"You  ask  a  strange  question, 
and  one  little  needing  answer. 
If  a  man  has  wandered  for  hours 
in  bog-holes,  he  will  be  in  no 
mind  to  stand  chaffering  at  inn 
doors.  I  seek  a  night's  lodging 
for  my  horse  and  myself." 

"  It's  little  we  can  give  you, 
for  it's  a  bare,  sinfu'  land,"  said 
he,  "  but  such  as  I  ha'e  ye're 
welcome  to.  Bide  a  minute, 
and  I'll  bring  a  licht  to  tak'  ye 
to  the  stable." 

He  was  gone  down  the  pass- 
age for  a  few  seconds,  and  re- 
turned with  a  rushlight  encased 
against  the  wind  in  a  wicker 
covering.  The  storm  made  it 
flicker    and    flare    till    it    sent 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      3  ^ 

dancing  shadows  over  the  dark 
walls  of  the  house.  The  stable 
lay  round  by  the  back  end,  and 
thither  poor  Saladin  and  his 
master  stumbled  over  a  most 
villainous  rough  ground.  The 
place,  when  found,  was  no  great 
thing  to  boast  of — a  cold  shed, 
damp  with  rain,  with  blaffs  of 
wind  wheezing  through  it ;  and 
I  was  grieved  to  think  of  my, 
horse's  nightly  comfort.  The 
host  snatched  from  a  rack  a 
truss  of  hay,  which  by  its  smell 
was  old  enough,  and  tossed  it 
into  the  manger.  "  There  ye 
are,  and  it's  mair  than  mony  a 
Christian  gets  in  thae  weary 
days." 

Then  he  led  the  way  back 
into  the  house.     We  entered  a 


32  SI/?  QUIXOTE. 

draughty  passage  with  a  win- 
dow at  one  end,  broken  in  part, 
through  which  streamed  the 
cold  air.  A  turn  brought  me 
into  a  Httle  square  room,  where 
a  fire  flickered  and  a  low  lamp 
burned  on  the  table.  'Twas  so 
home-like  and  peaceful  that  my 
heart  went  out  to  it,  and  I 
thanked  my  fate  for  the  com- 
fortable lodging  I  had  chanced 
on.  Mine  host  stirred  the  blaze 
and  bade  me  strip  off  my  wet 
garments.  He  fetched  me  an 
armful  of  rough  homespuns, 
but  I  cared  little  to  put  them 
on,  so  I  e'en  sat  in  my  shirt  and 
waited  on  the  drying  of  my 
coat.  My  mother's  portrait, 
the  one  by  Grizot,  which  I  have 
had  set  in  gold  and  wear  always 


/  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      Zl 

near  my  heart,  dangled  to  my 
lap,  and  I  took  this  for  an  evil 
omen.  I  returned  it  quick  to 
its  place,  the  more  so  because  I 
saw  the  landlord's  lantern-jaw 
close  at  the  sight,  and  his  cold 
eyes  twinkle.  Had  I  been  wise, 
too,  I  would  have  stripped  my 
rings  from  my  fingers  ere  I 
began  this  ill-boding  travel,  for 
it  does  not  behoove  a  gentleman 
to  be  sojourning  among  beggars 
with  gold  about  him. 

"  Have  ye  come  far  the  day  ?  " 
the  man  asked,  in  his  harsh 
voice.  "  Ye're  gey-like  splashed 
wi'  dirt,  so  I  jalouse  ye  cam 
ower  the  AngeVs  Ladder!' 

"Angel's  ladder!"  quoth  I, 
"  devil's  ladder  I  call  it !  for  a 
more  blackguardly  place  I  have 


34  S//i  QUIXOTE. 

not  clapped  eyes  on  since  I  first 
mounted  horse." 

"  Angel's  Ladder  they  call  it," 
said  the  man,  to  all  appearance 
never  heeding  my  words,  "  for 
there,  mony  a  year  syne,  an 
holy  man  of  God,  one  Ebenezer 
Clavershaws,  preached  to  a 
goodly  gathering  on  the  shining 
ladder  seen  by  the  patriarch 
Jacob  at  Bethel,  which  extend- 
ed from  earth  to  heaven. 
'Twas  a  rich  discourse,  and  I 
have  it  still  in  my  mind." 

"  'Twas  more  likely  to  have 
been  a  way  to  the  Evil  One  for 
me.  Had  I  but  gone  a  further 
step  many  a  time,  I  should  have 
been  giving  my  account  ere  this 
to  my  Maker.  But  a  truce  to 
this  talk.     'Twas  not  to  listen 


/  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      35 

to  such  that  I  came  here ;  let 
me  have  supper,  the  best  you 
have,  and  a  bottle  of  whatever 
wine  you  keep  in  this  accursed 
place.  Burgundy  is  my  choice." 
"  Young  man,"  the  fellow  said 
gravely,  looking  at  me  with  his 
unpleasing  eyes,  "  you  are  one 
who  loves  the  meat  that  perish- 
eth  rather  than  the  unsearch- 
able riches  of  God's  grace.  Oh, 
be  warned  while  yet  there  is 
time.  You  know  not  the  de- 
liehts  of  o-ladsome  communion 
wi'  Him,  which  makes  the  moss- 
hags  and  heather-busses  more 
fair  than  the  roses  of  Sharon 
or  the  balmy  plains  of  Gilead. 
Oh,  be  wise  and  turn,  for  now  is 
the  accepted  time,  now  is  the 
day  of  salvation  !  " 


36  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

Sacre  !  what  madman  have  I 
fallen  in  with,  thought  I,  who 
talks  in  this  fashion.  I  had 
heard  of  the  wild  deeds  of  those 
in  our  own  land  who  call  them- 
selves Huguenots,  and  I  was  not 
altogether  without  fear.  But 
my  appetite  was  keen,  and  my 
blood  was  never  of  the  coolest. 

"  Peace  with  your  nonsense, 
sirrah,"  I  said  sternly ;  "  what 
man  are  you  whocome  and  prate 
before  your  guests,  instead  of 
fetching  their  supper?  Let  me 
have  mine  at  once,  and  no  more 
of  your  Scripture." 

As  I  spoke,  I  looked  him  an- 
grily in  the  face,  and  my  bear- 
ing must  have  had  some  effect 
upon  him,  for  he  turned  sud- 
denly and  passed  out. 


/  FA  RE  BA  DL  V  IND  0  ORS.      3  7 

A  wench  appeared,  a  comely 
slip  of  a  girl,  Avith  eyes  some- 
what dazed  and  timorous,  and 
set  the  table  with  viands. 
There  was  a  moor-fowl,  well- 
roasted  and  tasty  to  the  palate, 
a  cut  of  salted  beef,  and  for 
wine,  a  bottle  of  French  claret 
of  excellent  quality.  'Twas  so 
much  in  excess  of  my  expecta- 
tion, that  I  straightway  fell 
into  a  good  humor,  and  the 
black  cloud  of  dismay  lifted  in 
some  degree  from  my  wits.  I 
filled  my  glass  and  looked  at 
it  against  the  fire-glow,  and 
dreamed  that  'twas  an  emblem 
of  the  after  course  of  my  life. 
Who  knew  what  fine  things  I 
might  come  to  yet,  though  now 
I  was  solitary  in  a  strange  land? 


38  SII^  QUIXOTE. 

The  landlord  came  in  and 
took  away  the  remnants  him- 
self. He  looked  at  me  fixedly- 
more  than  once,  and  in  his 
glance  I  read  madness,  greed, 
and  hatred.  I  feared  his  look, 
and  was  glad  to  see  him  leave, 
for  he  made  me  feel  angry 
and  a  little  awed.  However, 
thought  I,  'tis  not  the  first 
time  I  have  met  a  churlish  host, 
and  I  filled  my  glass  again. 

The  fire  bickered  cheerily, 
lighting  up  the  room  and  com- 
forting my  cold  skin.  I  drew 
my  chair  close  and  stretched 
out  my  legs  to  the  blaze,  till  in 
a  little,  betwixt  heat  and  weari- 
ness, I  was  pleasantly  drowsy. 
I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  events 
of  the  day  and  the  weary  road 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      39 

I  had  traveled ;  then  to  an 
earher  time,  when  I  first  came 
to  Scotland,  and  my  hopes 
were  still  unbroken.  After  all 
this  I  began  to  mind  me  of  the 
pleasant  days  in  France ;  for, 
though  I  had  often  fared  ill 
enough  there,  all  was  forgotten 
but  the  good  fortune ;  and  I 
had  soon  built  out  of  my  brain 
a  France  which  was  liker  Para- 
dise than  anywhere  on  earth. 
Every  now  and  then  a  log 
would  crackle  or  fall,  and  so 
wake  me  with  a  start,  for  the 
fire  was  of  that  sort  which  is 
common  in  hilly  places — a  great 
bank  of  peat  with  wood  laid 
athwart.  Blue,  pungent  smoke 
came  out  in  rings  and  clouds, 
which  smelt  gratefully   in  my 


40  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

nostrils  after  the  black  out-of- 
doors. 

By  and  by,  what  with  think- 
ing of  the  past,  what  with  my 
present  comfort,  and  what  with 
an  ever  hopeful  imagination, 
my  prospects  came  to  look  less 
dismal.  'Twas  true  that  I  was 
here  in  a  most  unfriendly  land 
with  little  money  and  no  skill 
of  the  country.  But  Scotland 
was  but  a  little  place,  after  all. 
I  must  come  to  Leith  in  time, 
where  I  could  surely  meet  a 
French  skipper  who  would 
take  me  over,  money  or  no. 
You  will  ask,  whoever  may 
chance  to  read  this  narrative, 
why,  in  Heaven's  name,  I  did 
not  turn  and  go  back  to  Ayr, 
the    port    from    which    I    had 


/  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      41 

come?  The  reason  is  not  far 
to  seek.  The  whole  land  be- 
hind me  stank  in  my  nostrils, 
for  there  dwelt  Ouentin  Ken- 
nedy, and  there  lay  the  scene 
of  my  discomfiture  and  my 
sufferings.  Faugh !  the  smell 
of  that  wretched  moor-road  is 
with  me  yet.  So,  with  think- 
ing one  way  and  another,  I 
came  to  a  decision  to  go  for- 
ward in  any  case,  and  trust  to 
God  and  my  own  good  fortune. 
After  this  I  must  have  ceased 
to  have  any  thoughts,  and 
dropped  off  snugly  to  sleep. 
I  wakened,  at  what  time  I 
know  not,  shivering,  with  a 
black  fire  before  my  knees. 
The  room  was  black  with  dark- 
ness,   save    where    through     a 


42  SI/?  QUIXOTE. 

chink  in  the  window-shutter 
there  came  a  gleam  of  pale 
moonlight.  I  sprang  up  in 
haste  and  called  for  a  servant 
to  show  me  to  my  sleeping 
room,  but  the  next  second  I 
could  have  wished  the  word 
back,  for  I  feared  that  no 
servant  would  be  awake  and 
at  hand.  To  my  mind  there 
seemed  something  passing 
strange  in  thus  leaving  a  guest 
to  slumber  by  the  fire. 

To  my  amazement,  the  land- 
lord himself  came  to  my  call, 
bearing  a  light  in  his  hand.  I 
was  reasonably  surprised,  for 
though  I  knew  not  the  hour  of 
the  night,  I  judged  from  the 
state  of  the  fire  that  it  must 
have  been   far  advanced. 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      43 

"  I  had  fallen  asleep,"  I  said, 
in  apology,  "  and  now  would 
finish  what  I  have  begun. 
Show  me   my  bed." 

"  It  '11  be  a  dark  nicht  and  a 
coorse,  out-bye,"  said  the  man, 
as  he  led  the  way  solemnly 
from  the  room,  up  a  rickety 
stair,  down  a  mirk  passage  to  a 
chamber  which,  from  the  turn- 
ings of  the  house,  I  guessed  to 
be  facing  the  east.  'Twas  a 
comfortless  place,  and  ere  I 
could  add  a  word  I  found  the 
the  man  leaving  the  room  with 
the  light.  "You'll  find  your 
way  to  bed  in  the  dark,"  quoth 
he,  and  I  was  left  in  blackness. 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  half-stupid  with  sleep, 
my  teeth   chattering  with    the 


44  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

cold,  listening  to  the  gusts  of 
wind  battering  against  the 
little  window.  'Faith!  thought 
I,  this  is  the  worst  enter- 
tainment I  ever  had,  and  I 
have  made  trial  of  many.  Yet 
I  need  not  complain,  for  I  have 
had  a  good  fire  and  a  royal 
supper,  and  my  present  dis- 
comfort is  due  in  great  part  to 
my  own  ill  habit  of  drowsiness. 
I  rose  to  undress,  for  my  bones 
were  sore  after  the  long  day's 
riding,  when,  by  some  chance, 
I  moved  forward  to  the  window 
and  opened  it  to  look  on  the 
night. 

'Twas  wintry  weather  outside, 
though  but  the  month  of  Au- 
cfust.  The  face  of  the  hills 
fronting  me  were    swathed    in 


/  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      45 

white  mist,  which  hung  low 
even  to  the  banks  of  the  stream. 
There  was  a  great  muttering  in 
the  air  of  swollen  water,  for  the 
rain  had  ceased,  and  the  red 
waves  were  left  to  roll  down 
the  channel  to  the  lowlands  and 
make  havoc  of  meadow  and 
steading.  The  sky  was  cum- 
bered with  clouds,  and  no  clear 
light  of  the  moon  came  through  ; 
but  since  'twas  nigh  the  time  of 
the  full  moon  the  night  was 
not  utterly  dark. 

I  lingered  for  maybe  five 
minutes  in  this  posture,  and 
then  I  heard  that  which  made 
me  draw  in  my  head  and  listen 
the  more  intently.  A  thud  of 
horses'  hoofs  on  the  wet  ground 
came  to  my  ear.  A  second,  and 


46  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

it  was  plainer,  the  noise  of  some 
half-dozen  riders  clearly  ap- 
proaching the  inn.  'Twas  a 
lonesome  place,  and  I  judged 
it  strange  that  company  should 
come  so  late. 

I  flung  myself  on  the  bed  in 
my  clothes,  and  could  almost 
have  fallen  asleep  as  I  was,  so 
weary  was  my  body.  But  there 
was  that  in  my  mind  which  for- 
bade slumber,  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness as  of  some  ill  approaching, 
which  it  behooved  me  to  com- 
bat. Again  and  again  I  tried 
to  drive  it  from  me  as  mere 
cowardice,  but  again  it  returned 
to  vex  me.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  that  I  should  lie  on 
my  back  and  bide  what  might 
come. 


I  FARE  BADL  V  INDOORS.      47 

« 

Then  again  I  heard  a  sound, 
this  time  from  a  room  beneath. 
'Twas  as  if  men  were  talking 
softly,  and  moving  to  and  fro. 
My  curiosity  was  completely 
aroused,  and  I  thought  it  no 
shame  to  my  soldierly  honor  to 
slip  from  my  room  and  gather 
what  was  the  purport  of  their 
talk.  At  such  a  time,  and  in 
such  a  place,  it  boded  no  good 
for  me,  and  the  evil  face  of  the 
landlord  was  ever  in  my  mem- 
ory. The  staircase  creaked  a 
little  as  it  felt  my  weight, 
but  it  had  been  built  for  heav- 
ier men,  and  I,  passed  it  in 
safety.  Clearly  the  visitors 
were  in  the  room  where  I  had 
supped. 

"  Will  we  ha'e  muckle  wark 


4^  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

wi'  him,   think   ye  ? "    I   heard 
one   man  ask. 

"  Na,  na,"  said  another,  whom 
I  knew  for  mine  host,  "he's  a 
foreigner,  a  man  frae  a  fremt 
land,  and  a'  folk  ken  they're 
little  use.  Forbye,  I  had  stock 
o'  him  mysel',  and  I  think  I 
could  mak'  his  bit  ribs  crack 
thegither.  He'll  no'  be  an  ill 
customer  to  deal  wi'." 

"  But  will  he  no'  be  a  guid 
hand  at  the  swird  ?  There's 
no  yin  o'  us  here  muckle  at 
that." 

''  Toots,"  said  another,  "  we'll 
e'en  get  him  intil  a  corner, 
where  he'll  no  git  leave  to  stir 
an  airm." 

I  had  no  stomach  for  more. 
With  a  dull  sense  of  fear  I  crept 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      49 

back  to  my  room,  scarce  heed- 
ing in  my  anger  whether  I 
made  noise  or  not.  Good  God  ! 
thought  I,  I  have  traveled  by 
land  and  sea  to  die  in  a  moor- 
land alehouse  by  the  hand  of 
common  robbers  !  My  heart 
grew  hot  at  the  thought  of  the 
landlord,  for  I  made  no  doubt 
but  it  was  my  jewels  that  had 
first  set  his  teeth.  I  loosened 
my  sword  in  its  scabbard  ;  and 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  'twas 
a  great  wonder  that  it  had  not 
been  taken  away  from  me  while 
I  slept.  I  could  only  guess 
that  the  man  had  been  afraid 
to  approach  me  before  the 
arrival  of  his  confederates.  I 
gripped  my  sword-hilt ;  ah,  how 
often  had  I  felt  its  touch  under 


50  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

kindlier  circumstances — when  I 
slew  the  boar  in  the  woods  at 
Belmont,  when  I  made  the  Sieur 
de   Biran   crave  pardon  before 

my  feet,  when  I But  peace 

with  such  memories !  At  all 
events,  if  Jean  de  Rohaine  must 
die  among  ruffians,  unknown 
and  forgotten,  he  would  finish 
his  days  like  a  gentleman  of 
courage.  I  prayed  to  God  that 
I  might  only  have  the  life  of 
the  leader. 

But  this  world  is  sweet  to  all 
men,  and  as  I  awaited  death 
in  that  dark  room,  it  seemed 
especially  fair  to  live.  I  was 
but  in  the  prime  of  my  age, 
on  the  near  side  of  forty, 
hale  in  body,  a  master  of  the 
arts  and  graces.     Were  it   not 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      5  ^ 

passing  hard  that  I  should 
perish  in  thiswise?  I  looked 
every  way  for  a  means  of  escape. 
There  was  but  one — the  little 
window  which  looked  upon  the 
ground  east  of  the  inn.  'Twas 
just  conceivable  that  a  man 
might  leap  it  and  make  his 
way  to  the  hills,  and  so  baffle 
his  pursuers.  Two  thoughts 
deterred  me  ;  first,  that  I  had 
no  horse  and  could  not  con- 
tinue my  journey  ;  second,  that 
in  all  likelihood  there  would  be 
a  watch  set  below.  My  heart 
sank  within  me,  and  I  ceased 
to  think. 

For,  just  at  that  moment,  I 
heard  a  noise  below  as  of  men 
leaving  the  room.  I  shut  my 
lips  and  waited.     Here,  I   con- 


52  STR  QUIXOTE. 

eluded,  is  death  coming  to  meet 
me.  But  the  next  moment  the 
noise  had  stopped,  and  'twas 
evident  that  the  conclave  was 
not  yet  closed.  'Tis  a  strange 
thing,  the  mind  of  man,  for  I, 
who  had  looked  with  despair  at 
my  chances  a  minute  agone, 
now,  at  the  passing  of  this  im- 
mediate danger,  plucked  up 
heart,  clapped  my  hat  on  my 
head,  and  opened  the  window. 
The  night  air  blew  chill,  but 
all  seemed  silent  below.  So, 
very  carefully  I  hung  over  the 
ledge,  gripped  the  sill  with  my 
hands,  swung  my  legs  into  the 
air,  and  dropped.  I  lighted  on 
a  tussock  of  grass  and  rolled 
over  on  my  side,  only  to  recover 
myself  in  an  instant  and  rise  to 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      53 

my  feet,  and,  behold,  at  my 
side,  a  tall  man  keeping  sentinel 
on  horseback. 

At  this  the  last  flicker  of 
hope  died  in  my  bosom.  The 
man  never  moved  or  spake, 
but  only  stared  fixedly  at  me. 
Yet  there  was  that  in  his  face 
and  bearing  which  led  me  to 
act  as  I  did. 

"  If  you  are  a  man  of  honor," 
I  burst  out,  "  though  you  are 
engaged  in  an  accursed  trade, 
dismount  and  meet  me  in  com- 
bat. Your  spawn  will  not  be  out 
for  a  little  time,  and  the  night  is 
none  so  dark.  If  I  must  die,  I 
would  die  at  least  in  the  open 
air,  with  my  foe  before  me." 

My  words  must  have  found 
some  answering  chord    in    the 


54  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

man's  breast,  for  he  presently 
spoke,  and  asked  me  my  name 
and  errand  in  the  countryside. 
I  told  him  in  a  dozen  words, 
and  at  my  tale  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  I  am  in  a  great  mind,"  says 
he,  "  to  let  you  go.  I  am  all 
but  sick  of  this  butcher  work, 
and  would  fling  it  to  the 
winds  at  a  word.  'Tis  well 
enough  for  the  others,  who  are 
mongrel  bred,  but  it  ill  be- 
comes a  man  of  birth  like  me, 
who  am  own  cousin  to  the 
Maxwells  o'  Drurie." 

He  fell  for  a  very  little  time 
into  a  sort  of  musing,  tugging 
at  his  beard  like  a  man  in  per- 
plexity. Then  he  spoke  out 
suddenly : 


/  FARE  DADL  V  INDOORS.      55 

**  See  you  yon  tuft  of  willows 
by  the  water?  There's  a  space 
behind  it  where  a  horse  and 
man  might  stand  well  con- 
cealed. There  is  your  horse," 
and  he  pointed  to  a  group  of 
horses  standing  tethered  by  the 
roadside ;  "  lead  him  to  the 
place  I  speak  of,  and  trust  to 
God  for  the  rest.  I  will  raise  a 
scare  that  you're  off  the  other 
airt,  and,  mind,  that  whenever 
you  see  the  tails  o'  us.  you 
mount  and  ride  for  life  in  the 
way  I  tell  you.  You  should 
win  to  Drumlanrig  by  morning, 
where  there  are  quieter  folk. 
Now,  mind  my  bidding,  and 
dae't  before  my  good  will 
changes." 

"  May  God  do  so  to  you  in 


56  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

your  extremity!  If  ever  I 
meet  you  on  earth  I  will  repay 
you  for  your  mercy.  But  a 
word  with  you.  Who  is  that 
man  ? "  and  I  pointed  to  the 
house. 

The  fellow  laughed  dryly. 
"  It's  easy  seen  you're  no 
acquaint  here,  or  you  would 
ha'e  heard  o'  Long  Jock  o'  the 
Hirsel.  There's  mony  a  man 
would  face  the  devil  wi'  a  regi- 
ment o'  dragoons  at  his  back, 
that  would  flee  at  a  glint  from 
Jock's  een.  You're  weel  quit 
o'  him.  But  be  aff  afore  the 
folk  are  stirring." 

I  needed  no  second  bidding, 
but  led  Saladin  with  all  speed 
to  the  willows,  where  I  made 
him    stand    knee-keep    in    the 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  INDOORS.      57 

water  within  cover  of  the  trees, 
while  I  crouched  by  his  side. 
'Twas  none  too  soon,  for  I  was 
scarce  in  hiding  when  I  heard 
a  great  racket  in  the  house,  and 
the  sound  of  men  swearing  and 
mounting  horse.  There  was  a 
loud  clattering  of  hoofs,  which 
shortly  died  away,  and  left  the 
world  quiet,  save  for  the  broil 
of  the  stream  and  the  loud 
screaming  of  moorbirds. 


CHAPTER  III. 

I   FARE   BADLY   ABROAD. 

LL  this  has  taken  a 
long  time  to  set  down, 
but  there  was  little 
time  in  the  acting.  Scarce 
half  an  hour  had  passed  from 
my  waking  by  the  black  fire 
till  I  found  myself  up  to  the 
waist  in  the  stream.  I  made 
no  further  delay,  but,  as  soon 
as  the  air  was  quiet,  led  Saladin 
out  as  stilly  as  I  could  on  the 
far  side  of  the  willows,  clam- 
bered on  his  back  (for  I  was 
too  sore  in  body  to  mount  in 

S8 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABROAD.      59 

any    other    fashion),    and    was 
riding  for  dear  life   along  the 
moor     road     in    the    contrary 
direction  to  that  from  which  I 
had  come  on  the  night  before. 
The    horse    had    plainly   been 
well    fed,  since,  doubtless,  the 
rufifians   had    marked    him    for 
their  own  plunder.    He  covered 
the  ground   in  gallant  fashion, 
driving  up  jets  and  splashes  of 
rain   water   from   the    pools  in 
the  way.     Mile  after  mile  was 
passed  with  no  sound   of  pur- 
suers ;  one   hill    gave   place  to 
another;  the  stream  grew  wider 
and    more   orderly ;  but  still  I 
kept    up   the   breakneck   pace, 
fearina;   to    slacken    rein.      Fif- 
teen   miles  were   covered,  as  I 
judged,  before  I   saw  the  first 


6o  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

light  of  dawn  in  the  sky,  a  red 
streak  in  a  gray  desert ;  and 
brought  my  horse  down  to  a 
trot,  thanking  God  that  at  last 
I  was  beyond  danger. 

I  was  sore  in  body,  with 
clammy  garments  sticking  to 
my  skin,  aching  in  back  and 
neck,  unslept,  well-nigh  as  mis- 
erable as  a  man  could  be.  But 
great  as  was  my  bodily  discom- 
fort, 'twas  not  one  tittle  to  com- 
pare with  the  sickness  of  my 
heart.  I  had  been  driven  to 
escape  from  a  hostel  by  a  win- 
dow like  a  common  thief ;  com- 
pelled to  ride, — nay,  there  was 
no  use  in  disguising  it, — to  flee, 
before  a  pack  of  ill-bred  vil- 
lains ;  I,  a  gentleman  of  France, 
who  had  ruffled  it  with  the  best 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABROAD.      6 1 

of  them  in  my  fit  of  prosperity. 
Again  and  again  I  questioned 
with  myself  whether  I  had  not 
done  better  to  die  in  that  place, 
fighting  as  long  as  the  breath 
was  in  my  body.  Of  this  I  am 
sure,  at  any  rate,  that  it  would 
have  been  the  way  more  sooth- 
ing to  my  pride.  I  argued  the 
matter  with  myself,  according 
to  the  most  approved  logic,  but 
could  come  no  nearer  to  the 
solution.  For  while  I  thought 
the  picture  of  myself  dying 
with  my  back  to  the  wall  the 
more  heroical  and  gentleman- 
like, it  yet  went  sore  against  me 
to  think  of  myself,  with  all  my 
skill  of  the  sword  and  the  polite 
arts,  perishing  in  a  desert  place 
at   the   hand  of  common    cut- 


62  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

throats.  'Twas  no  fear  of  death, 
I  give  my  word  of  honor;  that 
was  a  weakness  never  found  in 
our  race.  Courage  is  a  virtue 
I  take  no  credit  for  ;  'tis  but  a 
matter  of  upbringing.  But  a 
man  loves  to  make  some  noise 
in  the  earth  ere  he  leaves  it,  or 
at  least  to  pass  with  blowings 
of  the  trumpet  and  some  man- 
ner of  show.  To  this  day  I 
cannot  think  of  any  way  by 
which  I  could  have  mended  my 
conduct.  I  can  but  set  it  down 
as  a  mischance  of  Providence, 
which  meets  all  men  in  their 
career,  but  of  which  no  man  of 
spirit  cares  to  think. 

The  sun  rose  clear,  but  had 
scarce  shone  for  an  hour,  when, 
as   is   the  way  in  this  land,   a 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABROAD.      63 

fresh  deluge  of  rain  came  on, 
and  the  dawn,  which  had  begun 
in  crimson,  ended  in  a  dull  level 
of  gray.  I  had  never  been  used 
with  much  foul  weather  of  this 
sort,  so  I  bore  it  ill.  'Twas 
about  nine  of  the  morning  when 
I  rode  into  the  village  of  Drum- 
lanrig,  a  jumble  of  houses  in 
the  lee  of  a  great  wood,  which 
runs  up  to  meet  the  descend- 
ing moorlands.  Some  ragged 
brats,  heedless  of  the  weather, 
played  in  the  street,  if  one  may 
call  it  by  so  fine  a  name ;  but 
for  the  most  part  the  houses 
seemed  quite  deserted.  A 
woman  looked  incuriously  at 
me  ;  a  man  who  was  carrying 
sacks  scarce  raised  his  head  to 
view  me  ;  the  whole  place  was 


64  Slli  QUIXOTE. 

like  a  dwelling  of  the  dead,  I 
have  since  learned  the  reason, 
which  was  no  other  than  the 
accursed  butchery  on  which  I 
had  quarreled  with  Quentin 
Kennedy,  and  so  fallen  upon 
misfortune.  The  young  and 
manly  were  all  gone;  some  to 
the  hills  for  hiding,  some  to  the 
town  prisons,  some  across  the 
seas  to  work  in  the  plantations, 
and  some  on  that  long  journey 
from  which  no  man  returns. 
My  heart  boils  within  me  to  this 
day  to  think  of  it — but  there ! 
it  is  long  since  past,  and  I  have 
little  need  to  be  groaning  over 
it  now. 

There  was  no  inn  in  the 
place,  but  I  bought  bread  from 
the  folk  of  a  little  farm-steading 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  ABROAD.      65 

at  one  end  of  the  village  street. 
They  would  scarce  give  it  to 
me  at  first,  and  'twas  not  till 
they  beheld  my  woebegone 
plight  that  their  hearts  relented. 
Doubtless  they  took  me  for  one 
of  the  soldiers  who  had  harried 
them  and  theirs,  little  guessing 
that  'twas  all  for  their  sake  that 
I  was  in  such  evil  case.  I  did 
not  tarry  to  ask  the  road,  for 
Leith  was  too  far  distant  for 
the  people  in  that  place  to  know 
it.  Of  this  much  I  was  sure, 
that  it  lay  to  the  northeast,  so  I 
took  my  way  in  that  direction, 
shaping  my  course  by  the  sun. 
There  was  a  little  patch  of 
green  fields,  a  clump  of  trees, 
and  a  quiet  stream  beside  the 
village  ;  but  I  had  scarce  ridden 


66  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

half  a  mile  beyond  it  when 
once  more  the  moor  swallowed 
me  up  in  its  desert  of  moss  and 
wet  heather, 

I  was  now  doubly  dispirited. 
My  short  exhilaration  of  escape 
had  gone,  and  all  the  pangs 
of  wounded  pride  and  despair 
seized  upon  me,  mingled  with  a 
sort  of  horror  of  the  place  I  had 
come  through.  Whenever  I 
saw  a  turn  of  hill  which  brought 
the  AngeVs  Ladder  to  my  mind, 
I  shivered  in  spite  of  myself, 
and  could  have  found  it  in  my 
heart  to  turn  and  flee.  In  addi- 
tion, I  would  have  you  remem- 
ber, I  was  soaked  to  the  very 
skin,  my  eyes  weary  with  lack 
of  sleep,  and  my  legs  cramped 
with  much  riding. 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABHOAD.      67 

The  place  in  the  main  was 
moorland,  Avith  steep,  desolate 
hills  on  my  left.  On  the  right 
to  the  south  I  had  glimpses  of  a 
fairer  country,  woods  and  dis- 
tant fields,  seen  for  an  instant 
through  the  driving  mist.  In 
a  trice  France  was  back  in  my 
mind,  for  I  could  not  see  an 
acre  of  green  land  without  com- 
ing nigh  to  tears.  Yet,  and 
perhaps  'twas  fortunate  for  me, 
such  glimpses  were  all  too  rare. 
For  the  most  part,  the  way  was 
along  succession  of  sloughs  and 
mires,  with  here  a  piece  of  dry, 
heathy  ground,  and  there  an 
impetuous  water  coming  down 
from  the  highlands.  Saladin 
soon  fell  tired,  and,  indeed, 
small  wonder,  since  he  had  come 


68  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

many  miles,  and  his  fare  had 
been  of  the  scantiest.  He 
would  put  his  foot  in  a  bog-hole 
and  stumble  so  sharply  that  I 
would  all  but  lose  my  seat. 
Then,  poor  beast,  he  would  take 
shame  to  himself,  and  pick  his 
way  as  well  as  his  weary  legs 
would  suffer  him.  'Twas  an  evil 
plight  for  man  and  steed,  and 
I  knew  not  which  to  pity  the 
more. 

At  noon,  I  came  to  the  skirts 
of  a  long  hill,  Avhose  top  was 
hidden  with  fog,  but  which  I 
judged  to  be  high  and  lone- 
some. I  met  a  man- — the  first 
I  had  seen  since  Drumlanrig — 
and  asked  him  my  whereabouts. 
I  learned  that  the  hill  was 
called  Queen's  Berry,  and  that 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABROAD.      69 

in  some  dozen  miles  I  would 
strike  the  high  road  to  Edin- 
burgh. I  could  get  not  an- 
other word  out  of  him,  but 
must  needs  content  myself  with 
this  crumb  of  knowledge.  The 
road  in  front  was  no  road, 
nothing  but  a  heathery  moor, 
with  walls  of  broken  stones 
seaming  it  like  the  lines  of 
sewing  in  an  old  coat.  Gray 
broken  hills  came  up  for  a 
minute,  as  a  stray  wind  blew 
the  mist  aside,  only  to  disap- 
pear the  next  instant  in  a  ruin 
of  cloud. 

From  this  place  I  mark  the 
beginning  of  the  most  wretched 
journey  in  my  memory.  Till 
now  I  had  had  some  measure 
of  bodily  strength  to   support 


70  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

me.  Now  it  failed,  and  a  cold 
shivering  fit  seized  on  my  vitals, 
and  more  than  once  I  was  like 
to  have  fallen  from  my  horse. 
A  great  stupidity  came  over 
my  brain  ;  I  could  call  up  no 
remembrance  to  cheer  me,  but 
must  plod  on  in  a  horror  of 
darkness.  The  cause  was  not 
far  distant — cold,  wet,  and  de- 
spair. I  tried  to  swallow  some 
of  the  rain-soaked  bread  in  my 
pouch,  but  my  mouth  was  as 
dry  as  a  skin.  I  dismounted  to 
drink  at  a  stream,  but  the  water 
could  hardly  trickle  down  my 
throat  so  much  did  it  ache. 
'Twas  as  if  I  were  on  the  eve 
of  an  ague,  and  in  such  a  place 
it  were  like  to  be  the  end  of 
me. 


/  FARE  BADLY  ABROAD.      7 1 

Had  there  been  a  house,  I 
should  have  craved  shelter. 
But  one  effect  of  my  sickness 
was,  that  I  soon  strayed  woe- 
fully from  my  path,  such  as  it 
was,  and  found  myself  in  an 
evil  case  with  bogs  and  steep 
hillsides.  I  had  much  to  do  in 
keeping  Saladin  from  danger; 
and  had  I  not  felt  the  obliga- 
tion to  behave  like  a  man,  I 
should  have  flung  the  reins 
on  his  neck  and  let  him  bear 
himself  and  his  master  to  de- 
struction. Again  and  again  I 
drove  the  wish  from  my  mind — 
"  As  well  die  in  a  bog-hole  or 
break  your  neck  over  a  crag  as 
dwine  away  with  ague  in  the 
cold  heather,  as  you  are  like  to 
do,"   said  the  tempter.     But  I 


72  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

steeled  my  heart,  and  made  a 
great  resolve  to  keep  one  thing, 
though  I  should  lose  all  else — 
some  shreds  of  my  manhood. 

Toward  evening  I  grew  so 
ill  that  I  was  fain,  when  we 
came  to  a  level  place,  to  lay 
my  head  on  Saladin's  neck,  and 
let  him  stumble  forward.  My 
head  swam,  and  my  back  ached 
so  terribly  that  I  guessed 
feverishly  that  someone  had 
stabbed  me  unawares.  The 
weather  cleared  just  about 
even,  and  the  light  of  day  flick- 
ered out  in  a  watery  sunset, 
'Twas  like  the  close  of  my  life, 
I  thought,  a  gray  ill  day  and  a 
poor  ending.  The  notion  de- 
pressed me  miserably.  I  felt 
a    kinship     with     that     feeble 


/  FARE  BADL  Y  ABROAD.      73 

evening  light,  a  kinship  begot- 
ten of  equahty  in  weakness. 
However,  all  would  soon  end  ; 
my  day  must  presently  have 
its  evening ;  and  then,  if  all 
tales  were  true,  and  my  prayers 
had  any  efficacy,  I  should  be  in 
a  better  place. 

But  when  once  the  night  in 
its  blackness  had  set  in,  I 
longed  for  the  light  again, 
however  dismal  it  might  be. 
A  ghoulish  song,  one  which  I 
had  heard  long  before,  was  ever 
coming  to  my  memory  : 

"  La  pluye  nous  a  debuez  et  lave;?, 
Et  le  soleil  dessechez  et  noirciz  ; 
Pies,  corbeaux " 

With  a  sort  of  horror  I  tried 
to  drive  it  from  my  mind.  A 
dreadful    heaviness    oppressed 


74  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

me.  Fears  which  I  am 
ashamed  to  set  down  thronged 
my  brain.  The  way  had  grown 
easier,  or  I  make  no  doubt  my 
horse  had  fallen.  'Twas  a 
track  we  were  on,  I  could  tell 
by  the  greater  freedom  with 
which  Saladin  stepped.  God 
send,  I  prayed,  that  we  be 
near  to  folk,  and  that  they 
be  kindly  ;  this  prayer  I  said 
many  times  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  the  whistling  of  the 
doleful  wind.  Every  gust 
pained  me.  I  was  the  sport  of 
the  weather,  a  broken  puppet 
tossed  about  by  circumstance. 

Now  an  answer  was  sent  to 
me,  and  that  a  speedy  one.  I 
came  of  a  sudden  to  a  clump  of 
shrubbery  beside  a  wall.     Then 


/  FARE  BADL  V  ABROAD.      75 

at  a  turn  of  the  way  a  light 
shone  through,  as  from  a  broad 
window  among  trees.  A  few 
steps  more  and  I  stumbled  on 
a  gate,  and  turned  Saladin's 
head  up  a  pathway.  The  rain 
dripped  heavily  from  the 
bushes,  a  branch  slashed  me 
in  the  face,  and  my  weariness 
grew  tenfold  with  every  second. 
I  dropped  like  a  log  before  the 
door,  scarce  looking  to  see 
whether  the  house  was  great  or 
little  ;  and,  ere  I  could  knock 
or  make  any  call,  swooned 
away  dead    on    the   threshold. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  MY  COMING  TO  LINDEAN. 

HEN  I  came  to  my- 
self I  was  lying  in  a 
pleasant  room  with  a 
great  flood  of  sunlight  drifting 
through  the  window.  My  brain 
was  so  confused  that  it  was 
many  minutes  ere  I  could  guess 
in  which  part  of  the  earth  I  was 
laid.  My  first  thought  was  that 
I  was  back  in  France,  and  I  re- 
joiced with  a  great  gladness; 
but  as  my  wits  cleared  the 
past  came  back  by  degrees,  till 
I  had  it  plain  before  me,  from 
76 


MY  COMING  TO  LINDEAN.     77 

my  setting-out  to  my  fainting 
at  the  door.  Clearly  I  was  in 
the  house  where  I  had  arrived 
on  the  even  of  yesterday. 

I  stirred,  and  found  my  weak- 
ness gone,  and  my  health,  save 
for  some  giddiness  in  the  head, 
quite  recovered.  This  was  ever 
the  way  of  our  family,  who  may 
be  in  the  last  desperation  one 
day  and  all  alive  and  active  the 
next.  Our  frames  are  like  the 
old  grape  tendrils,  slim,  but 
tough  as  whipcord. 

At  my  first  movement  some- 
one arose  from  another  part  of 
the  room  and  came  forward.  I 
looked  with  curiosity,  and  found 
that  it  was  a. girl,  who  brought 
me  some  strengthening  food- 
stuff in  a  bowl.     The  sunlight 


78  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

smote  her  full  in  the  face  and 
set  her  hair  all  aglow,  as  if  she 
were  the  Madonna.  I  could 
not  see  her  well,  but,  as  she 
bent  over  me,  she  seemed  tall 
and  lithe  and  pretty  to  look 
upon. 

"  How  feel  you  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  a  strange,  soft  accent,  speak- 
ing the  pure  English,  but  with 
a  curious  turn  in  her  voice.  "  I 
trust  you  are  better  of  your  ail- 
ment." 

"  Yes,  that  I  am,"  I  said 
briskly,  for  I  was  ashamed  to 
be  lying  there  in  good  health, 
**  and  I  would  thank  you,  made- 
moiselle, for  your  courtesy  to 
a  stranger." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  she  cried,  "  'twas 
but  common   humanity.     You 


MV  COMING  TO  LhYDEAN.     79 

were  sore  spent  last  night,  both 
man  and  horse.  Had  you  trav- 
eled far?  But  no,"  she  added 
hastily,  seeing  me  about  to 
plunge  into  a  narrative  ;  "  your 
tale  will  keep.  I  cannot  have 
you  making  yourself  ill  again. 
You  had  better  bide  still  a  little 
longer."  And  with  a  deft  hand 
she  arranged  the  pillows  and 
was  gone. 

For  some  time  I  lay  in  a 
pleasing  inaction.  'Twas  plain 
I  had  fallen  among  gentlefolk, 
and  I  blessed  the  good  fortune 
which  had  led  me  to  the  place. 
Here  I  might  find  one  to  hear 
my  tale  and  help  me  in  my  ill- 
luck.  At  any  rate  for  the  pres- 
ent I  was  in  a  good  place,  and 
when  one  has  been  living  in  a 


8o  S//?  QUIXOTE. 

nightmare,  the  present  has  the 
major  part  in  his  thoughts. 
With  this  I  fell  asleep  again, 
for  I  was  still  somewhat  wearied 
in  body. 

When  I  awoke  'twas  late 
afternoon.  The  evil  weather 
seemed  to  have  gone,  for  the 
sun  was  bright  and  the  sky 
clear  with  the  mellowness  of 
approaching  even.  The  girl 
came  again  and  asked  me  how 
I  fared.  "  For,"  said  she,  "  per- 
haps you  wish  to  rise,  if  you  are 
stronger.  Your  clothes  were 
sadly  wet  and  torn  when  we 
got  you  to  bed  last  night,  so 
my  father  has  bade  me  ask  you 
to  accept  of  another  suit  till  your 
own  may  be  in  better  order. 
See,  I  have  laid  them  out  for 


MY  COMING  TO  LINDEAN.     «i 

you,  if  you  will  put  them  on." 
And  again,  ere  I  could  thank 
her,  she  was  gone. 

I  was  surprised  and  some- 
what affected  by  this  crowning 
kindness,  and  at  the  sight  of  so 
much  care  for  a  stranger  whose 
very  name  was  unknown.  I 
longed  to  meet  at  once  with 
the  men  of  the  house,  so  I 
sprung  up  and  drew  the  clothes 
toward  me.  They  were  of 
rough  gray  cloth,  very  strong 
and  warm,  and  fitting  a  man  a 
little  above  the  ordinary  height, 
of  such  stature  as  mine  is.  It 
did  not  take  me  many  minutes 
to  dress,  and  when  once  more  I 
found  myself  arrayed  in  whole- 
some garments  I  felt  my  spirit 
returning,    and    with    it   came 


52  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

hope,  and  a  kindlier  outlook  on 
the  world. 

No  one  appeared,  so  I  opened 
my  chamber  door  and  found 
myself  at  the  head  of  a  stair- 
case, which  turned  steeply 
down  almost  from  the  threshold. 
A  great  window  illumined  it, 
and  many  black-framed  pictures 
hung  on  the  walls  adown  it. 
At  the  foot  there  was  a  hall, 
broad  and  low  in  the  roof, 
whence  some  two  or  three 
doors  opened.  Sounds  of  men 
in  conversation  came  from  one, 
so  I  judged  it  wise  to  turn 
there.  With  much  curiosity  I 
lifted  the  latch  and  entered 
unbidden. 

'Twas  a  little  room,  well  fur- 
nished, and  stocked  to  the  very 


MY  COMING  TO  LINDEAN.     83 

ceiling  with  books.  A  fire 
burned  on  the  hearth,  by  which 
sat  two  men  talking.  They  rose 
to  their  feet  as  I  entered,  and 
I  marked  them  well.  One  was 
an  elderly  man  of  maybe  sixty 
years,  with  a  bend  in  his  back 
as  if  from  study.  His  face  was 
narrow  and  kindly ;  blue  eyes, 
like  a  Northman,  a  thin,  twitch- 
ing lip,  and  hair  well  turned 
to  silver.  His  companion  was 
scarce  less  notable  —  a  big, 
comely  man,  dressed  half  in  the 
fashion  of  a  soldier,  yet  with 
the  air  of  one  little  versed  in 
cities.  I  love  to  be  guessing  a 
man's  station  from  his  looks, 
and  ere  I  had  glanced  him  over, 
I  had  set  him  down  in  my  mind 
as    a   country   laird,   as   these 


84  SIR  QUIXOTE.    . 

folk  call  it.  Both  greeted  me 
courteously,  and  then,  as  I  ad- 
vanced, were  silent,  as  if  wait- 
ing for  me  to  give  some  account 
of  myself. 

"  I  have  come  to  thank  you 
for  your  kindness,"  said  I  awk- 
wardly, "  and  to  let  you  know 
something  of  myself,  for  'tis  ill 
to  be  harboring  folk  without 
names   or   dwelling." 

"  Tush  ! "  said  the  younger ; 
"  'twere  a  barbarity  to  leave 
anyone  without,  so  travel-worn 
as  you.  The  Levite  in  the 
Scriptures  did  no  worse.  But 
how  feel  you  now?  I  trust 
your   fatigue  is  gone." 

"  I  thank  you  a  thousand 
times  for  your  kindness.  Would 
I  knew  how  to  repay  it !  " 


MV  COMING  TO  LINDEAN.     85 

"  Nay,  young  man,"  said  the 
elder,  "  give  thanks  not  to  us, 
but  to  the  Lord  who  led  you 
to  this  place.  The  moors  are 
hard  bedding,  and  right  glad  I 
am  that  you  fell  in  with  us 
here.  'Tis  seldom  we  have  a 
stranger  with  us,  since  my 
brother  at  Drumlanrig  died  in 
the  spring  o'  last  year.  But  I 
trust  you  are  better,  and  that 
Anne  has  looked  after  you 
well.  A  maid  is  a  blessing  to 
sick  folk,  if  a  weariness  to  the 
hale." 

"  You  speak  truly,"  I  said, 
"  a  maid  is  a  blessing  to  the 
sick.  'Tis  sweet  to  be  well 
tended  when  you  have  fared 
hardly  for  days.  Your  kind- 
ness has  set  me  at  peace  with 


86  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the  world  again.  Yesterday  all 
was  black  before  me,  and  now, 
I  bethink  me,  I  see  a  little  ray 
of  light." 

"  'Twas  a  good  work,"  said 
the  old  man,  "  to  give  you  hope 
and  set  you  right  with  yourself, 
if  so  chance  we  have  done  it. 
What  saith  the  wise  man,  '  He 
that  hath  no  rule  over  his 
own  spirit  is  like  a  city  that 
is  broken  down  and  without 
walls  '  ?  But  whence  have  you 
come  ?  We  would  hear  your 
story." 

So  I  told  them  the  whole 
tale  of  my  wanderings,  from 
my  coming  to  Kennedy  to  my 
fainting  fit  at  their  own  thresh- 
old. At  the  story  of  my  quar- 
rel they  listened  eagerly,  and  I 


MY  COM IX G  TO  LINDEAN.     87 

could  mark  their  eyes  flashing, 
and  as  I  spake  of  my  sufferings 
in  the 'desert  I  could  see  sym- 
pathy in  their  faces.  When  I 
concluded,  neither  spake  for  a 
little,  till  the  elder  man  broke 
silence  with  : 

"  May  God  bless  and  protect 
you  in  all  your  goings !  Well 
I  see  that  you  are  of  the  up- 
right in  heart.  It  makes  me 
blithe  to  have  you  in  my 
house." 

The  younger  said  nothing 
but  rose  and   came   to  me. 

"  M.  de  Rohaine,"  he  said, 
speaking  my  name  badly,  "  give 
me  your  hand.  I  honor  you 
for  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
feeling." 

"  And  I   am  glad  to  give  it 


88  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

you,"  said  I,  and  we  clasped 
Jiands  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Then  we  stepped 
back  well  satisfied.  For  myself 
I  love  to  meet  a  man,  and  in 
the  great-limbed  young  fellow 
before  me  I  found  one  to  my 
liking. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you 
of  ourselves,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  for  'tis  fitting  that  a  guest 
should  know  his  entertainers. 
This  is  the  manse  of  Lindean, 
and  I  am  the  unworthy  man, 
Ephraim  Lambert,  whom  God 
hath  appointed  to  watch  over 
his  flock  in  this  place.  Sore, 
sore  are  we  troubled  by  evil 
men,  such  as  you  have  known  ; 
and  my  folk,  from  dwelling  in 
decent   cots,   have    to    hide   in 


MV  COMING  TO  LINDEAM.     89 

peat-hags  and  the  caves  of  the 
hills.  The  Lord's  hand  is 
heavy  upon  this  country  ;  'tis  a 
time  of  trial,  a  passing  through 
the  furnace.  God  grant  we  be 
not  found  faithless  !  This  home 
is  still  left  to  us,  and  thankful 
we  should  be  for  it;  and  I 
demand  that  you  dwell  with 
us  till  you  have  settled  on 
your  course.  This  man,"  he 
went  on,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  younger, 
"is  Master  Henry  Semple  of 
Clachlands,  a  fine  inheritance, 
all  ridden  and  rieved  by  these 
devils  on  earth,  Captain  Keith's 
dragoons.  Henry  is  of  our  be- 
lief, and  a  man  of  such  mettle 
that  the  Privy  Council  was  fain 
to  send  down  a  quartering  of 


90  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

soldiers  to  bide  in  his  house 
and  devour  his  substance. 
'Twas  a  thing  no  decent  man 
could  thole,  so  off  he  comes 
here  to  keep  us  company  till 
the  wind  blows  by.  If  you  look 
out  of  the  window  over  by  the 
side  of  yon  rig  of  hill,  ye'll  get 
a  glimmer  of  Clachlands  chim- 
neys, reeking  with  the  smoke 
of  their  evil  preparations.  Ay, 
ay,  lads,  burn  you  your  peats 
and  fill  up  the  fire  with  logs  till 
the  vent's  choked,  but  you'll 
burn  brawly  yourselves  some 
fine  day,  when  your  master 
gives   you   your   wages." 

He  looked  out  as  he  spoke, 
and  into  his  kindly  eyes  came 
a  gleam  of  such  anger  and  de- 
cision as  quite  transfigured  his 


MY  COMING  TO  LIN  DEAN.     9^ 

face  and  made  it  seem  more 
like  that  of  a  troop  captain 
than  a  peaceful  minister. 

And  now  Master  Semple 
spoke  up  :  "  God  send,  sir,  they 
suffer  for  no  worse  a  crime 
than  burning  my  peats  and  fire- 
wood. I  should  count  myself 
a  sorry  fellow  if  I  made  any 
complaint  about  a  little  visita- 
tion, when  the  hand  of  the 
Lord  is  smiting  so  sorely 
among  my  fellows.  I  could 
take  shame  to  myself  every 
time  I  eat  good  food  or  sleep 
in  a  decent  bed,  to  think  of 
better  men  creeping  aneath  the 
lang  heather  like  etherts,  or 
shivering  on  the  cauld  hill-side. 
There  '11  be  no  such  doings 
in  your  land,  M.  de  Rohaine  ? 


92  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

I've  heard  tell  of  folk  there  like 
us,  dwelling  in  the  hills  to  es- 
cape the  abominations  of  Rome. 
But  perhaps,"  and  he  hesitated, 
"  you  are  not  of  them  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  am  of  your 
enemies  by  upbringing;  but  I 
dearly  love  a  brave  man,  where- 
ever  I  meet  him.  'Tis  poor 
religion,  say  I,  which  would 
lead  one  to  see  no  virtue  in 
those  of  another  belief.  There 
is  one  God  above  all." 

"  Ay,  you  speak  truly,"  said 
the  old  man ;  "  He  has  made 
of  one  blood  all  the  nations  of 
the  earth.  But  I  yearn  to  see 
you  of  a  better  way  of  think- 
ing. Mayhap  I  may  yet  show 
you  your  errors?" 

"  I  thank  you,  but  I  hold  by 


A/y  COMING  TO  LIN  DEAN.     93 

'  every  man  to  his  upbringing.' 
Each  man  to  the  creed  of  his 
birth.  'Tis  a  poor  thing  to  be 
changing  on  any  pretext.  For, 
look  you,  God,  who  appointed 
a  man  his  place  of  birth,  set 
him  his  religion  with  it,  and  I 
hold  if  he  but  stick  to  it  he  is 
not  far  in  error." 

I  spoke  warmly,  but  in  truth  I 
had  thought  all  too  little  about 
such  things.  One  who  has  to 
fight  his  way  among  men  and 
live  hardly,  has,  of  necessity, 
little  time  for  his  devotions, 
and  if  he  but  live  cleanly,  his 
part  is  well  done.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
Who  will  gainsay  me? 

"  I  fear  your  logic  is  faulty," 
said  Master  Semple,  "■  but  it  is 
mighty  inhospitable  to  be  argu- 


94  S//i  QUIXOTE. 

ing  with  a  guest.  See,  here 
Anne  comes  with  the  lamp,  and 
supper  will  soon  be  ready." 

The  girl  came  in  as  he  spake, 
bearing  a  great  lamp,  which  she 
placed  on  a  high  shelf,  and  set 
about  laying  the  table  for 
supper.  I  had  noticed  her 
little  at  first  sight,  for  I  was 
never  given  to  staring  at  maids  ; 
but  now,  as  she  moved  about, 
I  found  myself  ever  watching 
her.  The  ruddy  firelight  striv- 
ing with  the  serene  glow  of  the 
lamp  met  and  flickered  about 
her  face  and  hair.  She  was 
somewhat  brown  in  skin,  like  a 
country  maiden  ;  but  there  was 
no  semblance  of  rusticity  in  her 
fair  features  and  deep  brown 
eyes.     Her  hair  hung  over  her 


MY  COMING  TO  LIN  DEAN.     95 

neck  as  brown  as  the  soft  fur 
of  a  squirrel,  and  the  fire  filled 
it  with  fantastic  shadows.  She 
was  singularly  graceful  in  fig- 
ure, moving  through  the  room 
and  bending  over  the  table  with 
a  grace  which  'twas  pretty  to 
contemplate,  'Twas  strange  to 
note  that  when  her  face  was 
averted  one  might  have  guessed 
her  to  be  some  village  girl  or 
burgher's  daughter ;  but  as 
soon  as  she  had  turned  her  im- 
perial eyes  on  you  she  looked 
like  a  queen  in  a  play.  Her 
face  was  a  curious  one,  serious 
and  dignified  beyond  her  years 
and  sex,  yet  with  odd  sparkles 
of  gayety  dancing  in  her  eyes 
and  the  corners  of  her  rosy 
mouth. 


96  SIJ?  QUIXOTE. 

Master  Semple  had  set  about 
helping  her,  and  a  pretty  sight 
it  was  to  see  her  reproving  and 
circumventing  his  ckimsiness. 
'Twas  not  hard  to  see  the  re- 
lation between  the  two.  The 
love-light  shone  in  his  eye 
whenever  he  looked  toward 
her ;  and  she,  for  her  part, 
seemed  to  thrill  at  his  chance 
touch.  One  strange  thing  I 
noted,  that,  whereas  in  France 
two  young  folks  could  not  have 
gone  about  the  business  of  set- 
ting a  supper-table  without 
much  laughter  and  frolic,  all 
was  done  here  as  if  'twere  some 
solemn  ceremonial. 

To  one  who  was  still  sick 
with  the  thought  of  the  black 
uplands   he   had    traversed,   of 


MY  COMING  TO  LIN  DEAN.     97 

the  cold,  driving  rain  and  the 
deadly  bogs,  the  fare  in  the 
manse  was  like  the  apple  to 
Eve  in  the  garden.  'Twas  fine 
to  be  eating  crisp  oaten  cakes, 
and  butter  fresh  from  the  churn, 
to  be  drinking  sweet,  warm 
milk — for  we  lived  on  the  plain- 
est; and,  above  all,  to  watch 
kindly  faces  around  you  in 
place  of  marauders  and  low 
ruffians.  The  minister  said  a 
lengthy  grace  before  and  after 
the  meal ;  and  when  the  table 
was  cleared  the  servants  were 
called  in  to  evening  prayer. 
Again  the  sight  pleased  me — 
the  two  maids  with  their  brown 
country  faces  seated  decently 
by  the  door;  Anne,  half  in 
shadow,  sitting  demurely  with 


98  S/J?  QUIXOTE. 

Master  Semple  not  far  off,  and 
at  the  table-head  the  white 
hairs  of  the  old  man  bowed 
over  the  Bible.  He  read  I 
know  not  what,  for  I  am  not  so 
familiar  with  the  Scriptures  as 
I  should  be,  and,  moreover, 
Anne's  grave  face  was  a  more 
entrancing  study.  Then  we 
knelt,  and  he  prayed  to  God  to 
watch  over  us  in  all  our  ways 
and  bring  us  at  last  to  his  pre- 
pared kingdom.  Truly,  when 
I  arose  from  my  knees,  I  felt 
more  tempted  to  be  devout 
than  I  have  any  remembrance 
of  before. 

Then  we  sat  and  talked  of 
this  and  that,  and  I  must  tell 
over  all  my  misfortunes  again 
for    mademoiselle's    entertain- 


Jl/y  COMING  TO  LINDEAN.     99 

ment.  She  listened  with  open 
wonder,  and  thanked  me  with 
her  marvelous  eyes.  Then  to 
bed  with  a  vile-smelling  lamp, 
in  a  wide,  low-ceilinged  sleep- 
ing room,  where  the  sheets  were 
odorous  of  bog-myrtle  and  fresh 
as  snow.  Sleep  is  a  goddess 
easy  of  conquest  when  wooed 
in  such  a  fashion. 


CHAPTER  V. 

I    PLEDGE   MY   WORD. 

F  my  life  at  Lindean 
for  the  next  three 
days  I  have  no  clear 
remembrance.  The  weather 
was  dry  and  languid,  as  often 
follows  a  spell  of  rain,  and  the 
long  hills  which  huddled  around 
the  house  looked  near  and  im- 
minent. The  place  was  so  still 
that  if  one  shouted  it  seemed 
almost  a  profanation.  'Twas  so 
Sabbath-like  that  I  almost  came 
to  dislike  it.  Indeed,  I  doubt 
I  should  have  found  it  irksome 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      lOl 

had  there  not  been  a  brawhng 
stream  in  the  glen,  which  kept 
up  a  continuous  dashing  and 
chattering.  It  seemed  the  one 
hnk  between  me  and  that  far- 
away world  in  which  not  long 
agone  I  had  been  a  dweller. 

The  life,  too,  was  as  regular 
as  in  the  king's  court.  Sharp 
at  six  I  was  awakened,  and  ere 
seven  we  were  assembled  for 
breakfast.  Then  to  prayers, 
and  then  to  the  occupations  of 
the  day.  The  minister  would 
be  at  his  books  or  down  among 
his  people  on  some  errand  of 
mercy.  The  church  had  been 
long  closed,  for  the  Privy 
Council,  seeing  that  Master 
Lambert  was  opposed  to  them, 
had    commanded    him    to    be 


I02  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

silent  ;  and  yet,  mark  you,  so 
well  was  he  loved  in  the  place 
that  they  durst  set  no  successor 
in  his  stead.  They  tried  it  once 
and  a  second  time,  but  the  un- 
happy man  was  so  taken  with 
fear  of  the  people  that  he  shook 
the  dust  of  Lindean  off  his  feet, 
and  departed  in  search  of  a 
more  hospitable  dwelling.  But 
the  minister's  mouth  was  shut, 
save  when  covertly,  and  with 
the  greatest  peril  to  himself,  he 
would  preach  at  a  meeting  of 
the  hill-folk  in  the  recesses  of 
the  surrounding  uplands. 

The  library  I  found  no  bad 
one — I  who  in  my  day  have 
been  considered  to  have  some- 
thing of  a  taste  in  books.  To 
be  sure  there  was  much  weari- 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      103 

some  stuff,  the  work  of  old 
divines,  and  huge  commentaries 
on  the  Scriptures,  written  in 
Latin  and  plentifully  inter- 
spersed with  Greek  and 
Hebrew.  But  there  was  good 
store  of  the  Classics,  both  prose 
and  poetry, — Horace,  who  has 
ever  been  my  favorite,  and 
Homer,  who,  to  my  thinking,  is 
the  finest  of  the  ancients. 
Here,  too,  I  found  a  Plato,  and 
I  swear  I  read  more  of  him  in 
the  manse  than  I  have  done 
since  I  went  through  him  with 
M.  Clerselier,  when  we  were 
students   together   in    Paris. 

The  acquaintance  which  I 
had  formed  with  Master 
Semple  speedily  ripened  into  a 
fast  friendship.     I   found  it  in 


I04  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

my  heart  to  like  this  great 
serious  man  —  a  bumpkin  if 
you  will,  but  a  man  of  courage 
and  kindliness.  We  were  wont 
to  take  long  walks,  always  in 
some  lonely  part  of  the  country, 
and  we  grew  more  intimate  in 
our  conversation  than  I  should 
ever  have  dreamed  of.  He 
would  call  me  John,  and  this 
much  I  suffered  him,  to  save 
my  name  from  the  barbarity  of 
his  pronunciation ;  while  in 
turn  I  fell  to  calling  him 
Henry,  as  if  we  had  been  born 
and  bred  together.  I  found 
that  he  loved  to  hear  of  my 
own  land  and  my  past  life, 
which,  now  that  I  think  of  it, 
must  have  had  no  little  interest 
to  one  dwelling    in    such    soli- 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      105 

tudes.  From  him  I  heard  of 
his  father,  of  his  brief  term 
at  the  College  of  Edinburgh, 
which  he  left  when  the  strife 
in  the  country  grew  high,  and 
of  his  sorrow  and  anger  at  the 
sufferings  of  those  who  with- 
stood the  mandate  of  the  king. 
Though  I  am  of  the  true  faith, 
I  think  it  no  shame  that  my 
sympathy  was  all  with  these 
rebels,  for  had  I  not  seen 
something  of  their  misery  my- 
self? But  above  all,  he  would 
speak  of  la  belle  Amie  as  one 
gentleman  will  tell  another  of 
his  love,  when  he  found  that  I 
was  a  willing  listener.  I  could 
scarce  have  imagined  such 
warmth  of  passion  to  exist 
in    the    man    as     he     showed 


io6  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

at    the   very    mention    of    her 
name. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  would  cry  out, 
"  I  would  die  for  her ;  I  would 
gang  to  the  world's  end  to  pleas- 
ure her  !  I  whiles  think  that  I 
break  the  first  commandment 
every  day  of  my  life,  for  I  canna 
keep  her  a  moment  out  of  my 
thoughts,  and  I  fear  she's  more 
to  me  than  any  earthly  thing 
should  be.  I  think  of  her  at 
nicht.  I  see  her  name  in  every 
page  of  the  Book.  I  thought 
I  was  bad  when  I  was  over  at 
Clachlands,  and  had  to  ride 
five  miles  to  see  her ;  but  now 
I'm  tenfold  worse  when  I'm 
biding  aside  her.  God  grant  it 
be  not  counted  to  me  for  sin !  " 

"Amen    to     that,"    said     I. 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      107 

'Tis  a  fine  thing  to  see  the  love 
of  a  maid  ;  but  I  hold  'tis  a 
finer  to  witness  the  passion  of 
a  strong  man. 

Yet,  withal,  there  was  some- 
thing sinister  about  the  house 
and  its  folk  which  to  me  was 
the  fly  in  the  ointment.  They 
were  kindness  and  charity 
incarnate,  but  they  were  cold 
and  gloomy  to  boot,  lacking 
any  grace  or  sprightliness  in 
their  lives.  I  find  it  hard  to 
write  this,  for  their  goodness  to 
me  was  beyond  recompense ; 
yet  I  must  set  it  down,  since  in 
some  measure  it  has  to  do  with 
my  story.  The  old  man  would 
look  at  me  at  times  and  sigh, 
nor  did  I  think  it  otherwise 
than  fitting,  till  I    found  from 


lo8  ^7^  QUIXOTE. 

his  words  that  the  sighs  were 
on  account  of  my  own  spiritual 
darkness.  I  have  no  quarrel 
with  any  man  for  wishing  to 
convert  me,  but  to  sigh  at  one's 
approach  seems  a  doleful  way 
of  setting  about  it.  Then  he 
would  break  out  from  his 
wonted  quietness  at  times  to 
rail  at  his  foes,  calling  down 
the  wrath  of  Heaven  to  blight 
them.  Such  a  fit  was  always 
followed  by  a  painful  exhaus- 
tion, which  left  him  as  weak 
as  a  child,  ^nd  shivering  like 
a  leaf.  I  bitterly  cursed  the 
state  of  a  country  which  could 
ruin  the  peace  of  mind  of  a 
man  so  sweet-tempered  by 
nature,  and  make  him  the 
sport  of  needless  rage.     'Twas 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      109 

pitiful  to  see  him  creep  off 
to  his  devotions  after  any 
such  outbreak,  penitent  and 
ashamed.  Even  to  his  daugh- 
ter he  was  often  cruelly  sharp, 
and  would  call  her  to  account 
for  the  merest  trifle. 

As  for  Master  Henry,  what 
shall  I  say  of  him  ?  I  grew  to 
love  him  like  my  own  brother, 
yet  I  no  more  understood  him 
than  the  Sultan  of  Turkey. 
He  had  strange  fits  of  gloom, 
begotten,  I  must  suppose,  of 
the  harsh  country  and  his 
many  anxieties,  in  which  he 
was  more  surly  than  a  bear, 
speaking  little,  and  that  mainly 
from  the  Scriptures.  I  have 
one  case  in  my  memory,  when, 
had  I  not  been  in  a  sense  his 


no  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

guest,  I  had  scarce  refrained 
from  quarreling.  'Twas  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  second  day, 
when  we  returned  weary  from 
one  of  our  long  wanderings. 
Anne  tripped  forth  into  the 
autumn  sunlight  singing  a 
catch,  a  simple  glee  of  the 
village   folk. 

"  Peace,  Anne,"  says  Master 
Henry  savagely;  "it  little  be- 
comes you  to  be  singing  in 
these  days,  unless  it  be  a  godly 
psalm.  Keep  your  songs  for 
better  times." 

"What  ails  you?"  I  ven- 
tured  to  say.  "  You  praised  her 
this  very  morning  for  singing 
the  self-same  verses." 

"And  peace,  you,"  he  says 
roughly,    as    he     entered    the 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD,      m 

house;  "if  the  lass  hearkened 
to  your  accursed  creed,  I  should 
have  stronger  words  for  her." 

My  breath  was  fairly  taken 
from  me  at  this  incredible  rude- 
ness. I  had  my  hand  on  my 
sword,  and  had  I  been  in  my 
own  land  we  should  soon  have 
settled  it.  As  it  was,  I  shut  my 
lips  firmly  and  choked  down  my 
choler. 

Yet  I  cannot  leave  with  this 
ill  word  of  the  man.  That  very 
night  he  talked  with  me  so 
pleasingly,  and  with  so  friendly 
a  purport,  that  I  conceived  he 
must  have  been  scarce  himself 
when  he  so  insulted  me.  In- 
deed, I  discerned  two  natures 
in  the  man — one,  hard,  satur- 
nine, fanatically  religious ;  the 


112  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

other,  genial  and  kindly,  like 
that  of  any  other  gentleman  of 
family.  The  former  I  attributed 
to  the  accident  of  his  fortune  ; 
the  second  I  held  to  be  the 
truer,  and  in  my  thoughts  of  him 
still  think  of  it  as  the  only  one. 

But  I  must  pass  to  the  events 
which  befell  on  the  even  of 
the  third  day,  and  wrought  so 
momentous  a  change  in  the  life 
at  Lindean.  'Twas  just  at  the 
lighting  of  the  lamp,  when  Anne 
and  the  minister  and  myself  sat 
talking  in  the  little  sitting  room, 
that  Master  Henry  entered  with 
a  look  of  great  concern  on  his 
face,  and  beckoned  the  elder 
man   out. 

"  Andrew  Gibb  is  here,"  said 
he. 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      I13 

"  And  what  may  Andrew 
Gibb  be  wanting?"  asked  the 
old  man,  glancing  up  sharply. 

"  He  brings  nae  guid  news,  I 
fear,  but  he'll  tell  them  to  none 
but  you  ;  so  hasten  out,  sir,  to 
the  back,  for  he's  come  far,  and 
he's  ill  at  the  waiting." 

The  twain  were  gone  for 
some  time,  and  in  their  absence 
I  could  hear  high  voices  in  the 
back  end  of  the  house,  con- 
versing as  on  some  matter  of 
deep  import.  Anne  fetched  the 
lamp  from  the  kitchen  and 
trimmed  it  with  elaborate  care, 
lighting  it  and  setting  it  in  its 
place.  Then,  at  last,  the  min- 
ister returned  alone. 

I  was  shocked  at  the  sight  of 
him  as  he  re-entered  the  room. 


114  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

His  face  was  ashen  pale  and 
tightly  drawn  about  the  lips. 
He  crept  to  a  chair  and  leaned 
his  head  on  the  table,  speaking 
no  word.  Then  he  burst  out 
of  a  sudden  into  a  storm  of 
pleading. 

"O  Lord  God,"  he  cried, 
"thou  hast  aye  been  good  to 
us,  thou  has  kept  us  weel,  and 
bielded  us  frae  the  wolves  who 
have  sought  to  devour  us.  Oh, 
dinna  leave  us  now.  It's  no' 
for  mysel'  or  Henry  that  I  care. 
We're  men,  and  can  warstle 
through  ills ;  but  oh,  what  am 
I  to  dae  wi'  the  bit  helpless 
lassie  ?  It's  awfu'  to  have  to 
gang  oot  among  hills  and  bogs 
to  bide,  but  it's  ten  times  waur 
when  ye  dinna  ken  what's  gaun 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      115 

to  come  to  your  bairn.  Hear 
me,  O  Lord,  and  grant  me 
my  request.  I've  no'  been  a' 
that  I  micht  have  been,  but  oh, 
if  I  ha'e  tried  to  serve  thee  at 
a',  dinna  let  this  danger  over- 
whelm us! " 

He  had  scarcely  finished,  and 
was  still  sitting  with  bowed 
head,  when  Master  Henry  also 
entered  the  room.  His  eyes 
were  filled  with  an  austere 
frenzy,  such  as  I  had  learned 
to  look  for. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  he,  '"tis  a 
time  for  us  a'  to  be  on  our 
knees.  But  ha'e  courage,  and 
dinna  let  us  spoil  the  guid 
cause  by  our  weak  mortal  com- 
plaining. Is't  no'  better  to  be 
hunkering  in  a  moss-hole    and 


ii6  s/j;:  QUIXOTE. 

communing  with  the  Lord  than 
waxing  fat  like  Jeshurun  in  car- 
nal corruption  ?  Call  on  God's 
name,  but  no'  wi'  sighing,  but 
wi'  exaltation,  for  He  hath  bid- 
den us  to  a  mighty  heritage." 

"  Ye  speak  brave  and  true, 
Henry,  and  I'm  wi'  your  every 
word.  But  tell  me  what's  to 
become  o'  my  bairn?  What 
will  Anne  dae  ?  I  once  thought 
there    was    something   atween 

you "    He  stopped  abruptly 

and  searched  the  face  of  the 
young  man. 

At  his  words  Master  Semple 
had  started  as  under  a  lash. 
"  Oh,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "  I  had 
forgotten !  Anne,  Anne,  my 
dearie,  we  canna  leave  ye,  and 
you  to  be  my  wife.     This  is  a 


/  PLEDGE  M  V  WORD.      1 1  7 

sore  trial  of  faith,  sir,  and  I 
misdoubt  I  canna  stand  it.  To 
leave  ye  to  the  tender  mercies 
o'  a'  the  hell-hounds  o'  dragoons 
— oh,  I  canna  dae't!" 

He  clapped  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  and  walked  about  the 
room  like  a  man  distraught. 

And  now  I  put  in  my  word. 
"  What  ails  you,  Henry?  Tell 
me,  for  I  am  sore  grieved  to  see 
you  in  such  perplexity." 

"Ails  me?"  he  repeated. 
"  Aye,  I  will  tell  ye  what  ails 
me";  and  he  drew  his  chair 
before  me.  "  Andrew  Gibb's 
come  ower  frae  the  Ruthen  wi' 
shure  news  that  a  warrant's  oot 
against  us  baith,  for  being  at 
the  preaching  on  Callowa'  Muir, 
'Twas  an  enemy  did  it,  and  now 


Il8  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the  soldiers  are  coming  at  ony 
moment  to  lay  hands  on  us  and 
take  us  off  to  Embro'.  Then 
there  '11  be  but  a  short  lease  of 
life  for  us ;  and  unless  we  take 
to  the  hills  this  very  nicht  we 
may  be  ower  late  in  the  morn- 
ing. I'm  wae  to  tak'  sae  auld 
a  man  as  Master  Lambert  to 
wet  mosses,  but  there's  nothing 
else  to  be  dune.  But  what's  to 
become  o'  Anne?  Whae's  to 
see  to  her,  when  the  dragoons 
come  riding  and  cursing  about 
the  toon?  Oh,  it's  a  terrible 
time,  John.  Pray  to  God,  if  ye 
never  prayed  before,  to  let  it 
pass." 

Mademoiselle  had  meantime 
spoken  never  a  word,  but  had 
risen  and  gone  to  her  father's 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      I19 

chair  and  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck.  Her  presence  seemed 
to  cheer  the  old  man,  for  he 
ceased  mourning  and  looked  up, 
while  she  sat,  still  as  a  statue, 
with  her  grave,  lovely  face 
against  his.  But  Master  Scra- 
pie's grief  was  pitiful  to  witness. 
He  rocked  himself  to  and  fro 
in  his  chair,  with  his  arms 
folded  and  a  set,  white  face. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would 
break  into  a  cry  like  a  stricken 
animal.  The  elder  man  was 
the  first  to  counsel  patience. 

"  Stop,  Henry,"  says  he  ;  "  it's 
ill-befitting  Christian  folk  to  set 
sic  an  example.  We've  a'  got 
our  troubles,  and  if  ours  are 
heavier  than  some,  it's  no'  for 
us  to  complain.     Think  o'  the 


I20  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

many  years  o'  grace  we've  had. 
There's  nae  doubt  the  Lord 
will  look  after  the  bairn,  for 
he's  a  guid  Shepherd  for  the 
feckless." 

But  now  of  a  sudden  a 
thought  seemed  to  strike 
Henry,  and  he  was  on  his  feet 
in  a  twinkling  and  by  my  side. 

"  John,"  he  almost  screamed 
in  my  ear,  "  John,  I'm  going  to 
ask  ye  for  the  greatest  service 
that  ever  man  asked.  Ye'll  no' 
say  me  nay?" 

"  Let  me  hear  it,"  said  L 

"  Will  you  bide  wi'  the  lass  ? 
You're  a  man  o'  birth,  and  I'll 
swear  to  it,  a  man  o'  honor.  I 
can  trust  you  as  I  would  trust 
my  ainbrither.  Oh,  man,dinna 
deny   me !     It's  the  last   hope 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      121 

I  ha'e,  for  if  ye  refuse,  we  maun 
e'en  gang  to  the  hills  and  leave 
the  pair  thing  alane.  Oh,  ye 
canna  say  me  nae !  Tell  me 
that  ye'll  do  my  asking." 

I  was  so  thunderstruck  at 
the  request  that  I  scarce  could 
think  for  some  minutes.  Con- 
sider, was  it  not  a  strange  thing 
to  be  asked  to  stay  alone  in 
a  wild  moorland  house  with 
another  man's  betrothed,  for 
Heaven  knew  how  many  weary 
days?  My  life  and  prospects 
were  none  so  cheerful  for  me  to 
despise  anything,  nor  so  varied 
that  I  might  pick  and  choose ; 
but  yet  'twas  dreary,  if  no  worse, 
to  look  forward  to  any  length 
of  time  in  this  desolate  place. 
I  was  grateful  for  the  house  as 


122  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

a  shelter  by  the  way,  yet  I 
hoped  to  push  on  and  get  rid, 
as  soon  as  might  be,  of  this 
accursed  land. 

But  was  I  not  bound  by  all 
the  ties  of  gratitude  to  grant 
my  host's  request?  They  had 
found  me  fainting  at  their  door, 
they  had  taken  me  in,  and 
treated  me  to  their  best;  I  was 
bound  in  common  honor  to  do 
something  to  requite  their  kind- 
ness. And  let  me  add,  though 
not  often  a  man  subject  to  any 
feelings  of  compassion,  what- 
ever natural  bent  I  had  this  way 
having  been  spoiled  in  the  wars, 
I  nevertheless  could  not  refrain 
from  pitying  the  distress  of 
that  strong  man  before  me.  I 
felt  tenderly  toward  him,  more 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      123 

SO  than  I  had  felt  to  anyone  for 
many  a  day. 

All  these  thoughts  raced 
through  my  head  in  the  short 
time  while  Master  Henry  stood 
before  me.  The  look  in  his 
eyes,  the  pained  face  of  the 
old  man,  and  the  sight  of  Anne, 
so  fair  and  helpless,  fixed  my 
determination. 

"  I  am  bound  to  you  in  grati- 
tude," said  I,  "and  I  would 
seek  to  repay  you.  I  will 
bide  in  the  house,  if  so  you 
will,  and  be  the  maid's  pro- 
tector. God  grant  I  may  be 
faithful  to  my  trust,  and  may 
he  send  a  speedy  end  to  your 
exile  ?" 

So  'twas  all  finished  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  I  was    fairly  em- 


124  S/H  QUIXOTE. 

barked  upon  the  queerest  enter- 
prise of  my  life.  For  myself  I 
sat  dazed  and  meditative ;  as 
for  the  minister  and  Master 
Semple,  one-half  of  the  burden 
seemed  to  be  lifted  from  their 
minds.  I  was  amazed  at  the 
trusting  natures  of  these  men, 
who  had  habited  all  their  days 
with  honest  folk  till  they  con- 
ceived all  to  be  as  worthy  as 
themselves.  I  felt,  I  will  own, 
a  certain  shrinking  from  the 
responsibility  of  the  task ;  but 
the  Rubicon  had  been  crossed 
and  there  was  no  retreat. 

Of  the  rest  of  that  night  how 
shall  I  tell  ?  There  was  such  a 
bustling  and  pother  as  I  had 
never  seen  in  any  house  since 


I  PLEDGE  MV  WORD.      125 

the  day  that  my  brother  Denis 
left  Rohaine  for  the  Dutch  wars. 
There  was  a  running  and  scurry- 
ing about,  a  packing  of  food,  a 
seeking  of  clothes,  for  the  fugi- 
tives must  be  off  before  the  first 
lig-ht.  Anne  went  about  with 
a  pale,  tearful  face  ;  and  'twas  a 
matter  of  no  surprise,  for  to  see 
a  father,  a  man  frail  and  fallen 
in  years,  going  out  to  the  chill 
moorlands  in  the  early  autumn 
till  no  man  knew  when,  is  a 
grievous  thing  for  a  young  maid. 
Her  lover  was  scarce  in  so  dire 
a  case,  for  he  was  young  and 
strong,  and  well  used  to  the  life 
of  the  hills.  For  him  there 
was  hope  ;  for  the  old  man  but 
a  shadow.  My  heart  grew  as 
bitter  as  gall  at  the  thought  of 


126  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the    villains    who    brought    it 
about. 

How  shall  I  tell  of  the  morn- 
ing, when  the  faint  light  was 
flushing  the  limits  of  the  sky, 
and  the  first  call  of  a  heath- 
bird broke  the  silence  !  'Twas 
sad  to  see  these  twain  with 
their  bundles  (the  younger 
carrying  the  elder's  share) 
creep  through  the  heather  to- 
ward the  hills.  They  affected 
a  cheerful  resolution,  assumed 
to  comfort  Anne's  fears  and 
sorrow  ;  but  I  could  mark  be- 
neath it  a  settled  despair. 
The  old  man  prayed  at  the 
threshold,  and  clasped  his 
daughter  many  times,  kissing 
her  and  giving  her  his  blessing. 
The     younger,      shaken     with 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      127 

great  sobs,  bade  a  still  more 
tender  farewell,  and  then 
started  off  abruptly  to  hide  his 
grief.  Anne  and  I,  from  the 
door,  watched  their  figures  dis- 
appear over  the  crest  of  the 
ridge,  and  then  went  in,  sober 
and  full  of  angry  counsels. 

The  soldiers  came  about  an 
hour  before  mid-day— a  band 
from  Clachlands,  disorderly 
rufiians,  commanded  by  a 
mealy-faced  captain.  They 
were  a  scurrilous  set,  their 
faces  bloated  with  debauchery 
and  their  clothes  in  no  very 
decent  ojder.  As  one  might 
have  expected,  they  were 
mightily  incensed  at  finding 
their   bird    flown,   and    fell    to 


128  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

cursing  each  other  with  great 
good-will.  They  poked  their 
low-bred  faces  into  every  nook 
in  the  house  and  outbuildings ; 
and  when  at  length  they  had 
satisfied  themselves  that  there 
was  no  hope  from  that  quarter, 
they  had  all  the  folk  of  the 
dwelling  out  on  the  green  and 
questioned  them  one  by  one. 
The  two  serving-lasses  were 
stanch,  and  stoutly  denied  all 
knowledge  of  their  master's 
whereabouts — which  was  in- 
deed no  more  than  the  truth. 
One  of  the  two,  Jean  Crichope 
by  name,  when  threatened 
with  ill-treatment  if  she  did  not 
speak,  replied  valiantly  that 
she  would  twist  the  neck  of 
the     first     scoundrelly    soldier 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      129 

who  dared  to  lay  finger  on  her. 
This  I  doubt  not  she  could 
have  performed,  for  she  was  a 
very  daughter  of  Anak. 

As  for  Anne  and  myself, 
we  answered  according  to  our 
agreement.  They  were  very 
curious  to  know  my  errand 
there  and  my  name  and  birth  ; 
and  when  I  bade  them  keep 
their  scurvy  tongues  from  de- 
filing a  gentleman's  house, 
they  were  none  so  well  pleased. 
I  am  not  a  vain  man,  and  I 
do  not  set  down  the  thing  I 
am  going  to  relate  as  at  all 
redounding  to  my  credit ;  I 
merely  tell  it  as  an  incident  in 
my  tale. 

The  captain  at  last  grew 
angry.     He  saw   that    the   law 


13°  STR  QUIXOTE. 

was  powerless  to  touch  us,  and 
that  nought  remained  for  him 
but  to  ride  to  the  hills  in 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives.  This 
he  seemed  to  look  upon  as  a 
hardship,  being  a  man  to  all 
appearance  more  fond  of  the 
bottle  and  pasty  than  a  hill 
gallop.  At  any  rate  he  grew 
wroth,  and  addressed  to  Anne 
a  speech  so  full  of  gross  rude- 
ness that  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
interfere. 

"  Look  you  here,  sir,"  said  I, 
"  I  am  here,  in  the  first  place, 
to  see  that  no  scoundrel  mal- 
treats this  lady.  I  would  ask 
you,  therefore,  to  be  more 
civil  in  your  talk  or  to  get 
down  and  meet  me  in  fair 
fight.     These  gentlemen,"  and 


/  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      131 

I  made  a  mocking  bow  to  his 
company,  "  will,  I  am  assured, 
see  an  honest  encounter." 

The  man  flushed  under  his 
coarse  skin.  His  reputation 
was  at  stake.  There  was  no 
other  course  open  but  to  take 
up  my  challenge. 

"You,  you  bastard  French- 
man," he  cried,  "would  you 
dare  to  insult  a  captain  of  the 
king's  dragoons?  I'  faith,  I 
will  teach  you  better  manners  ;" 
and  he  came  at  me  with  his 
sword  in  a  great  heat.  The 
soldiers  crowded  round  like 
children    to    see   a  cock-fight. 

In  an  instant  we  crossed 
swords  and  fell  to ;  I  with  the 
sun  in  my  eyes  and  on  the 
lower     ground.      The     combat 


132  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

was  not  of  long  duration.  In 
a  trice  I  found  that  he  was  a 
mere  child  in  my  hands,  a  bar- 
barian who  used  his  sword  like 
a  quarter-staff,  not  even  putting 
strength  into  his  thrusts. 

"  Enough  !  "  I  cried  ;  "this  is 
mere  fooling;"  and  with  a 
movement  which  any  babe  in 
arms  might  have  checked, 
twirled  his  blade  from  his 
hands  and  sent  it  spinning  over 
the  grass.  "  Follow  your 
sword,  and  learn  two  things 
before  you  come  back — civility 
to  maids  and  the  rudiments 
of  sword-play.  Bah !  Begone 
with  you  !  " 

Some  one  of  his  men  laughed, 
and  I  think  they  were  secretly 
glad  at  their  tyrant's  discomfi- 


I  PLEDGE  MY  WORD.      133 

ture.  No  more  need  be  said. 
He  picked  up  his  weapon  and 
rode  away,  vowing  vengeance 
upon  me  and  swearing  at  every 
trooper  behind  him.  I  cared 
not  a  straw  for  him,  for  de- 
spite his  bravado  I  knew  that 
the  fear  of  death  was  in  his 
cowardly  heart,  and  that  we 
should  be  troubled  no  more  by 
his  visitations. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IDLE   DAYS. 

HAVE  heard  it  said 
by  wise  folk  in  France 
that  the  autumn  is  of 
all  seasons  of  the  year  the  most 
trying  to  the  health  of  a  soldier  ; 
since,  for  one  accustomed  to  the 
heat  of  action  and  the  fire  and 
fury  of  swift  encounter,  the  de- 
cay of  summer,  the  moist,  rot- 
ting air,  and  the  first  chill  pre- 
ludes of  winter  are  hard  to 
stand.  This  may  be  true  of 
our  own  autumn  days,  but  in 
the  north  country  'twas  other- 
134 


IDLE  DAYS.  135 

wise.  For  there  the  weather 
was  as  sharp  and  clear  as  spring, 
and  the  only  signs  of  the  season 
were  the  red  leaves  and  the 
brown  desolate  moors.  Lin- 
dean  was  built  on  the  slope  of 
the  hills,  with  the  steeps  behind 
it,  and  a  vista  of  level  land  to 
the  front:  so  one  could  watch 
from  the  window  the  red  woods 
of  the  low  country,  and  see  the 
stream,  turgid  with  past  rains, 
tearing  through  the  meadows. 
The  sun  rose  in  the  morning  in 
a  blaze  of  gold  and  crimson; 
the  days  were  temperately 
warm,  the  afternoons  bright, 
and  the  evening  another  pro- 
cession of  colors.  'Twas  all  so 
beautiful  that  I  found  it  hard 
to  keep  my  thoughts  at  all  on 


136  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the  wanderers  in  the  hills  and 
to  think  of  the  house  as  under 
a  dark  shadow. 

And  if  'twas  hard  to  do  this, 
'twas  still  harder  to  look  upon 
Anne  as  a  mourning  daughter. 
For  the  first  few  days  she  had 
been  pale  and  silent,  going 
about  her  household  duties  as 
was  her  wont,  speaking  rarely, 
and  then  but  to  call  me  to 
meals.  But  now  the  pain  of 
the  departure  seemed  to  have 
gone,  and  though  still  quiet  as 
ever,  there  was  no  melancholy 
in  her  air  ;  but  with  a  certain 
cheerful  gravity  she  passed  in 
and  out  in  my  sight.  At  first 
I  had  had  many  plans  to  con- 
sole her;  judge  then  of  my 
delight  to   find  them  needless. 


IDLE  DAYS.  137 

She  was  a  brave  maid,  I 
thought,  and  Httle  like  the  com- 
mon, who  could  see  the  folly  of 
sighing,  and  set  herself  to  hope 
and  work  as  best  she  could.. 

The  days  passed  easily 
enough  for  me,  for  I  could  take 
Saladin  and  ride  through  the 
countryside,  keeping  always  far 
from  Clachlands;  or  the  books 
in  the  house  would  stand  me  in 
good  stead  for  entertainment. 
With  the  evenings  'twas  differ- 
ent. When  the  lamp  was  lit, 
and  the  fire  burned,  'twas  hard 
to  find  some  method  to  make 
the  hours  go  by.  I  am  not  a 
man  easily  moved,  as  I  have 
said ;  and  yet  I  took  shame  to 
myself  to  think  of  the  minister 
and  Master  Henry  in  the  cold 


138  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

bogs,  and  Anne  and  myself 
before  a  great  blaze.  Again  and 
again  I  could  have  kicked  the 
logs  off  to  ease  my  conscience, 
and  was  only  held  back  by 
respect  for  the  girl.  But,  of  a 
surety,  if  she  had  but  given  me 
the  word,  I  would  have  been 
content  to  sit  in  the  fireless 
room  and  enjoy  the  approval 
of  my  heart. 

She  played  no  chess  ;  indeed, 
I  do  not  believe  there  was  a 
board  in  the  house ;  nor  was 
there  any  other  sport  where- 
with to  beguile  the  long  even- 
ings. Reading  she  cared  little 
for,  and  but  for  her  embroidery 
work  I  know  not  what  she 
would  have  set  her  hand  to. 
So,    as   she   worked    with   her 


IDLE  DAYS.  139 

threads  I  tried  to  enliven  the 
time  with  some  account  of  my 
adventures  in  past  days,  and 
some  of  the  old  gallant  tales 
with  which  I  was  familiar.  She 
heard  me  gladly,  listening  as  no 
comrade  by  the  tavern-board 
ever  listened  ;  and  though,  for 
the  sake  of  decency,  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  out  many  of 
the  more  diverting,  yet  I  flatter 
myself  I  won  her  interest  and 
made  the  time  less  dreary.  I 
ranged  over  all  my  own  exper- 
ience and  the  memory  of  those 
tales  which  I  had  heard  from 
others — and  those  who  know 
anything  of  me  know  that  that 
is  not  small.  I  told  her  of  ex- 
ploits in  the  Indies  and  Spain, 
in  Germany  and  the  Low  Coun- 


I40  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

tries,  and  in  far  Muscovy,  and 
'twas  no  little  pleasure  to  see 
her  eager  eyes  dance  and  sparkle 
at  a  jest,  or  grow  sad  at  a  sor- 
sowful  episode.  Ma  vie  !  She 
had  wonderful  eyes — the  most 
wonderful  I  have  ever  seen. 
They  were  gray  in  the  morning 
and  brown  at  noonday ;  now 
sparkling,  but  for  the  most  part 
fixedly  grave  and  serene.  'Twas 
for  such  eyes,  I  fancy,  that  men 
have  done  all  the  temerarious 
deeds  concerning  womankind 
which  history  records. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
our  life  was  a  lively  one,  or 
aught  approaching  gayety.  The 
talking  fell  mostly  to  my  lot, 
for  she  had  a  great  habit  of 
silence,     acquired      from     her 


IDLE  DA  YS.  141 

lonely  dwelling-place.  Yet  I 
moved  her  more  than  once  to 
talk  about  herself. 

I  heard  of  her  mother,  a  dis- 
tant cousin  of  Master  Semple's 
father;  of  her  death  when 
Anne  was  but  a  child  of  seven ; 
and  of  the  solitary  years  since, 
spent  in  study  under  her 
father's  direction,  in  household 
work,  or  in  acts  of  mercy  to 
the  poor.  She  spoke  of  her 
father  often,  and  always  in  such 
a  way  that  I  could  judge  of  a 
great  affection  between  them. 
Of  her  lover  I  never  heard, 
and,  now  that  I  think  the 
matter  over,  'twas  no  more 
than  fitting.  Once,  indeed,  I 
stumbled  upon  his  name  by 
chance   in   the   course  of  talk, 


142  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

but  as  she  blusheci  and  started, 
I  vowed  to  fight  shy  of  it  ever 
after. 

As  we  knew  well  before,  no 
message  from  the  hills  could 
be  sent,  since  the  moors  were 
watched  as  closely  as  the  gate- 
way of  a  prison.  This  added 
to  the  unpleasantness  of  the 
position  of  each  of  us.  In 
Anne's  case  there  was  the 
harassing  doubt  about  the 
safety  of  her  kinsfolk,  that 
sickening  anxiety  which  saps 
the  courage  even  of  strong 
men.  Also,  it  rendered  my 
duties  ten  times  harder.  For, 
had  there  been  any  communi- 
cation between  the  father  or 
the  lover  and  the  maid,  I 
should  have  felt  less  like  a  St. 


IDLE  DAYS.  143 

Anthony  in  the  desert.  As  it 
was,  I  had  to  fight  with  a  terri- 
ble sense  of  responsibiHty  and 
unhmited  power  for  evil,  and 
God  knows  how  hard  that  is 
for  any  Christian  to  strive 
with,  'Twould  have  been  no 
very  hard  thing  to  shut  myself 
in  a  room,  or  bide  outside  all 
day,  and  never  utter  a  word  to 
Anne  save  only  the  most  neces- 
sary; but  I  was  touched  by  the 
girl's  loneliness  and  sorrows, 
and,  moreover,  I  conceived  it 
to  be  a  strange  way  of  execu- 
ting a  duty,  to  flee  from  it  alto- 
gether. I  was  there  to  watch 
over  her,  and  I  swore  by  the 
Holy  Mother  to  keep  the  very 
letter  of  my  oath. 

And  so  the  days  dragged  by 


144  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

till  September  was  all  but  gone. 
I  have  always  loved  the  sky 
and  the  vicissitudes  of  weather, 
and  to  this  hour  the  impres- 
sion of  these  autumn  evenings 
is  clear  fixed  on  my  mind. 
Strangely  enough  for  that 
north  country,  they  were  not 
cold,  but  mild,  with  a  sort  of 
acrid  mildness  ;  a  late  summer, 
with  the  rigors  of  winter  under- 
lying, like  a  silken  glove  over  a 
steel  gauntlet. 

One  such  afternoon  I  remem- 
ber, when  Anne  sat  busy  at 
some  needlework  on  the  low 
bench  by  the  door,  and  I  came 
and  joined  her.  She  had  won- 
derful grace  of  body,  and  'twas 
a  pleasure  to  watch  every  move- 
ment of  her  arm  as  she  stitched. 


IDLE  DAYS.  145 

I  sat  silently  regarding  the  land- 
scape, the  woods  streaking  the 
bare  fields,  the  thin  outline  of 
hills  beyond,  the  smoke  rising 
from  Clachlands'  chimneys,  and 
above  all,  the  sun  firing  the 
great  pool  in  the  river,  and 
flaming  among  clouds  in  the 
west.  Something  of  the  spirit 
of  the  place  seemed  to  have 
entered  into  the  girl,  for  she 
laid  aside  her  needlework  after 
a  while  and  gazed  with  brim- 
ming eyes  on  the  scene.  So 
we  sat,  feasting  our  eyes  on  the 
picture,  each  thinking  strange 
thoughts,  I  doubt  not.  By 
and  by  she  spoke. 

"  Is  France,  that  you  love  so 
well, more  beautiful  than  this,M. 
de  Rohaine?"  she  asked  timidly. 


146  SIJ^  QUIXOTE. 

"  Ay,  more  beautiful,  but  not 
like  this  ;  no,  not  like  this." 

"And  what  is  it  like?  I 
have  never  seen  any  place  other 
than  this." 

''  Oh,  how  shall  I  tell  of  it  ?  " 
I  cried.  "  'Tis  more  fair  than 
words.  We  have  no  rough 
hills  like  these,  nor  torrents  like 
the  Lin  there ;  but  there  is  a 
great  broad  stream  by  Rohaine, 
as  smooth  as  a  mill-pond,  where 
you  can  row  in  the  evenings, 
and  hear  the  lads  and  lasses 
singing  love  songs.  Then 
there  are  great  quiet  meadows, 
where  the  kine  browse,  where 
the  air  is  so  still  that  one  can 
sleep  at  a  thought.  There  are 
woods,  too — ah  !  such  woods — 
stretching    up   hill,    and    down 


IDLE  DAYS.  147 

dale,  as  green  as  spring  can 
make  them,  with  long  avenues 
where  men  may  ride  ;  and,  per- 
haps, at  the  heart  of  all,  some 
old  chateau,  all  hung  with 
vines  and  creepers,  where  the 
peaches  ripen  on  the  walls  and 
the  fountain  plashes  all  the 
summer's  day.  Bah  !  I  can 
hardly  bear  to  think  on  it,  'tis 
so  dear  and  homelike ; "  and 
I  turned  away  suddenly,  for 
I  felt  my  voice  catch  in  my 
throat. 

"What  hills  are  yonder?" 
I  asked  abruptly,  to  hide  my 
feelings. 

Anne  looked  up. 

"  The  hills  beyond  the  little 
green  ridge  you  mean  ? "  she 
says.     "That  will   be  over  by 


148  SI  A'  QUIXOTE. 

Eskdalemuir  and  the  top  of 
the  Ettrick  Water.  I  have 
heard  my  father  speak  often  of 
them,  for  they  say  that  many 
of  the  godly  find  shelter  there." 
"  Many  of  the  godly  !  " 
I  turned  round  sharply, 
though  what  there  was  in  the 
phrase  to  cause  wonder  I  can- 
not see.  She  spoke  but  as  she 
had  heard  the  men  of  her  house 
speak ;  yet  the  words  fell 
strangely  on  my  ears,  for  by  a 
curious  process  of  thinking  I 
had  already  begun  to  separate 
the  girl  from  the  rest  of  the 
folk  in  the  place,  and  look  on 
her  as  something  nearer  in 
sympathy  to  myself.  Faugh  ? 
that  is  not  the  way  to  put  it. 
I  mean  that  she  had  listened  so 


IDLE  DAYS.  149 

much  to  my  tales  that  I  had 
all  but  come  to  look  upon  her 
as  a  countrywoman  of  mine. 

"Are  you  dull  here,  Anne?" 
I  asked,  for  I  had  come  to  use 
the  familiar  name,  and  she  in 
turn  would  sometimes  call  me 
Jean— and  very  prettily  it  sat 
on  her  tongue.  "  Do  you  never 
wish  to  go  elsewhere  and  see 
the  world  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  she  said.  "  I  had 
scarce  thought  about  the 
world  at  all.  'Tis  a  place  I 
have  little  to  do  with,  and  I 
am  content  to  dwell  here  for- 
ever, if  it  be  God's  will.  But  I 
should  love  to  see  your  France, 
that  you  speak  of." 

This  seemed  truly  a  desire 
for  gratifying  which  there  was 


150  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

little  chance ;  so  I  changed 
the  subject  of  our  converse, 
and  asked  her  if  she  ever  sang. 
"  Ay,  I  have  learned  to  sing 
two  or  three  songs,  old  ballads 
of  the  countryside,  for  though 
my  father  like  it  little,  Henry 
takes  a  pleasure  in  hearing 
them.  I  will  sing  you  one  if 
you  wish  it."  And  when  I 
bade  her  do  so,  she  laid  down 
her  work,  which  she  had  taken 
up  again,  and  broke  into  a  curi- 
ous plaintive  melody.  I  cannot 
describe  it.  'Twould  be  as 
easy  to  describe  the  singing  of 
the  wind  in  the  tree-tops.  It 
minded  me,  I  cannot  tell  how, 
of  a  mountain  burn,  falling 
into  pools  and  rippling  over 
little   shoals    of    gravel.     Now 


SIR  QUIXOTE.  151 

'twas  full  and  strong,  and  now 
'twas  so  eerie  and  wild  that  it 
was  more  like  a  curlew's  note 
than  any  human  thing.  The 
story  was  about  a  knight  who 
sailed  to  Norway  on  some 
king's  errand  and  never  re- 
turned, and  of  his  lady  who 
waited  long  days  at  home, 
weeping  for  him  who  should 
never  come  back  to  her,  I  did 
not  understand  it  fully,  for 
'twas  in  an  old  patois  of  the 
country,  but  I  could  feel  its 
beauty.  When  she  had  finished 
the  tears  stood  in  my  eyes,  and 
I  thought  of  the  friends  I  had 
left,  whom  I  might  see  no  more. 
But  when  I  looked  at  her,  to 
my  amazement,  there  was  no 
sign  of  feeling  in  her  face. 


152  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

"  'Tis  a  song  I  have  sung 
often,"  she  said,  "  but  I  do  not 
like  it.  'Tis  no  better  than  the 
ringing  of  a  bell  at  a  funeral." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  wishing  to 
make  her  cheerful,  "  I  will  sing 
you  a  gay  song  of  my  own 
country.  The  folk  dance  to  it 
on  the  Sunday  nights  at  Ro- 
haine,  when  blind  Rene  plays 
the  fiddle."  So  I  broke  into 
the  "  May  song,"  with  its  lilting 
refrain. 

Anne  listened  intently,  her 
face  full  of  pleasure,  and  at  the 
second  verse  she  began  to  beat 
the  tune  with  her  foot.  She, 
poor  thing,  had  never  danced, 
had  never  felt  the  ecstasy  of 
motion ;  but  since  all  mankind 
is   alike    in    nature,   her   blood 


IDLE  DAYS.  153 

stirred  at  the  tune.  So  I  sang 
her  another  chanson,  this  time 
an  old  love  ballad,  and  then 
again  a  war  song.  But  by  this 
time  the  darkness  was  growing 
around  us,  so  we  must  needs 
re-enter  the  house ;  and  as  I 
followed  I  could  hear  her 
humming  the  choruses  with 
a    curious   delight. 

"So  ho,  Mistress  Anne," 
thought  I,  "  you  are  not  the 
little  country  mouse  that  I  had 
thought  you,  but  as  full  of 
spirit  as  a  caged  hawk.  Faith, 
the  town  would  make  a  brave 
lass  of  you,  were  you  but 
there !  " 

From  this  hour  I  may  date 
the  beginning  of  the  better  un- 
derstanding— I    might    almost 


154  SI/^  QUIXOTE. 

call  it  friendship— between  the 
two  of  us.  She  had  been  bred 
among  moorland  solitudes,  and 
her  sole  companions  had  been 
solemn  praying  folk  ;  yet,  to  my 
wonder,  I  found  in  her  a  nature 
loving  gayety  and  mirth,  songs 
and  bright  colors  —  a  grace 
which  her  grave  deportment  did 
but  the  more  set  off.  So  she 
came  soon  to  look  at  me  with 
a  kindly  face,  doing  little  acts 
of  kindness  every  now  and  then 
in  some  way  or  other,  which  I 
took  to  be  the  return  which  she 
desired  to  make  for  my  clumsy 
efforts  to  please  her. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   DAUGHTER   OF   HERODIAS. 

HE  days  at  Lindean 
dragged  past,  and  the 
last  traces  of  summer 
began  to  disappear  from  the 
face  of  the  hills.  The  bent 
grew  browner,  the  trees  more 
ragged,  and  the  torrent  below 
more  turgid  and  boisterous. 
Yet  no  word  came  from  the 
hills,  and,  sooth  to  tell,  we 
almost  ceased  to  look  for  it. 
*Twas  not  that  we  had  forgot- 
ten the  minister  and  Master 
Semple  in  their  hiding,  for  the 

I5S 


156  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

thought  of  them  was  often  at 
hand  to  sadden  me,  and  Anne, 
I  must  suppose,  had  many  anx- 
ious meditations ;  but  our  Hfe 
at  Lindean  was  so  peaceful  and 
removed  from  any  hint  of  vio- 
lence that  danger  did  not  come 
before  our  minds  in  terrible 
colors.  When  the  rain  beat  at 
night  on  the  window,  and  the 
wind  howled  round  the  house, 
then  our  hearts  would  smite  us 
for  living  in  comfort  when  our 
friends  were  suffering  the  furi- 
ous weather.  But  when  the 
glorious  sun-lit  morning  had 
come,  and  we  looked  over  the 
landscape,  scarce  free  from  the 
magic  of  dawn,  then  we  counted 
it  no  hardship  to  be  on  the  hills. 
And  rain  came  so  seldom  dur- 


DA  UGHTER  OF  HERODIA  S.     1 5  7 

ing  that  time,  and  the  sun  so 
often,  that  the  rigor  of  the  hill- 
life  did  not  appal  us. 

This  may  account  for  the  way 
in  which  the  exiles  slipped  from 
our  memories  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day.  For  myself  I 
say  nothing — 'twas  but  natural ; 
but  from  Anne  I  must  confess 
that  I  expected  a  greater  show 
of  sorrow.  To  look  at  her  you 
would  say  that  she  was  bur- 
dened with  an  old  grief,  so  seri- 
ous was  her  face  ;  but  when  she 
would  talk,  then  you  might  see 
how  little  her  heart  was  taken 
up  with  the  troubles  of  her 
house  and  the  care  for  her 
father  and  lover.  The  girl  to 
me  was  a  puzzle,  which  I  gave 
up    all    attempting    to     solve. 


158  SI/?  QUIXOTE. 

When  I  had  first  come  to  Lin- 
dean,  lo !  she  was  demure  and 
full  of  filial  affection,  and 
tender  to  her  lover.  Now, 
when  I  expected  to  find  her 
sorrowful  and  tearful  at  all 
times,  I  found  her  quiet  indeed, 
but  instinct  with  a  passion  for 
beauty  and  pleasure  and  all  the 
joys  of  life.  Yet  ever  and  anon 
she  would  take  a  fit  of  solemnity, 
and  muse  with  her  chin  poised 
on  her  hand ;  and  I  doubt  not 
that  at  such  times  she  was 
thinking  of  her  father  and  her 
lover  in  their  manifold  perils. 

One  day  the  rain  came  again 
and  made  the  turf  plashy  and 
sodden,  and  set  the  Lin  roaring 
in  his  gorge.  I  had  beguiled 
the  morning  by  showing  Anne 


DA  UGHTER  OF  HEROD  I  A  S.     1 5  9 

the  steps  of  dancing,  and  she 
had  proved  herself  a  ready- 
pupil.  To  pleasure  her  I 
danced  the  sword-dance,  which 
can  only  be  done  by  those  who 
have  great  dexterity  of  motion  ; 
and  I  think  I  may  say  that  I 
acquitted  myself  well.  The  girl 
stood  by  in  wonderment,  look- 
ing at  me  with  a  pleasing  mix- 
ture of  surprise  and  delight. 
She  had  begun  to  look 
strangely  at  me  of  late.  Every 
now  and  then  when  I  lifted  my 
head  I  would  find  her  great 
eyes  resting  on  me,  and  at  my 
first  glance  she  would  withdraw 
them.  They  were  strange  eyes 
— a  mingling  of  the  fawn  and 
the  tiger. 

As   I    have   said,  in   a  little 


i6o  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

time  she  had  acquired  some 
considerable  skill,  and  moved  as 
gracefully  as  though  she  had 
learned  it  from  her  childhood, 
while  I  whistled  bars  of  an  old 
dancing  tune.  She  had  a  little 
maid  who  attended  her, — Eff 
she  called  her, — and  the  girl 
stood  by  to  watch  while  Anne 
did  my  bidding.  Then  when 
we  were  all  wearied  of  the 
sport,  I  fell  to  thinking  of  some 
other  play,  and  could  find  none. 
'Twas  as  dull  as  ditch-water,  till 
the  child  Eff,  by  a  good  chance, 
spoke  of  fishing.  She  could 
get  her  father's  rod  and  hooks, 
she  said,  for  he  never  used  them 
now  ;  and  I  might  try  my  luck 
in  the  Lin  Water.  There  were 
good  trout  there,  it  seemed,  and 


DAUGHTER  OF  HERODIAS.     i6i 

the  choice  time  of  taking  them 
was  in  the  autumn  floods. 

Now  I  have  ever  been  some- 
thing of  a  fisherman,  for  many 
an  hour  have  I  spent  by  the  big 
fish  pond    at    Rohaine.     So    I 
got  the  tackle  of  Eff's  father- 
rude  enough  it  was  in  all  con- 
science— and  in  the  early  after- 
noon  I    set    out  to  the  sport. 
Below   the  house  and  beyond 
the  wood  the   Lin   foams  in  a 
deep  gully,  falling  over  horrid 
cascades    into    great    churning 
pools,   or   diving    beneath    the 
narrow   rocks.     But  above  the 
ravine  there  is  a  sudden  change. 
The     stream      flows      equably 
through  a  flat  moor   in    sedgy 
deeps   and    bright   shimmering 
streams.     Thither   I    purposed 


l62  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

to  go,  for  I  am  no  lover  of  the 
awesome  black  caldrons,  which 
call  to  a  man's  mind  visions  of 
drowned  bodies  and  pits  which 
have  no  ending.  On  the  moor 
with  the  wind  blowing  about 
one  'twas  a  pleasure  to  be,  but 
faugh !  no  multitude  of  fish 
was  worth  an  hour  in  that  dis- 
mal chasm. 

I  had  not  great  success,  and 
little  wonder,  for  my  leisurely- 
ways  were  ill  suited  for  the  alert 
mountain  fish.  My  time  was 
spent  in  meditating  on  many 
things,  but  most  of  all  on  the 
strange  case  in  which  I  found 
myself.  For  in  truth  my  posi- 
tion was  an  odd  one  as  ever 
man  was  in. 

Here   was    I   bound  by   my 


DA  UGH TER  OF  HERODIA  S.    163 

word  of  honor  to  bide  in  the 
house  and  protect  its  inmates 
till  that  indefinite  time  when  its 
master  might  return.  There  was 
no  fear  of  money,  for  the  min- 
ister had  come  of  a  good  stock, 
and  had  more  gear  than  is  usual 
Avith  one  of  his  class.  But 
'tw'as  an  evil  thing  to  look  for- 
ward to — to  spend  my  days  in  a 
lonely  manse,  and  wait  the  end 
of  a  persecution  which  showed 
no  signs  of  ending. 

But  the  mere  discomfort  was 
nothing  had  it  not  been  for  two 
delicate  scruples  which  came  to 
torment  me.  Imprimis,  'twas 
more  than  any  man  of  honor 
could  do  to  dwell  in  warmth 
and  plenty,  while  his  entertain- 
ers were  languishing  for  lack  of 


1 64  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

food  or  shivering  with  cold  in 
the  hags  and  holes  of  the  moun- 
tains. I  am  a  man  tolerably- 
hardened  by  war  and  travel,  yet 
I  could  never  abide  to  lie  in  bed 
on  a  stormy  night  or  to  eat  my 
food  of  a  sharp  morning  when  I 
thought  of  the  old  man  dying, 
it  might  be,  unsheltered  and 
forlorn.  Item,  there  was  the 
matter  of  the  girl ;  and  I  cannot 
tell  how  heavy  the  task  had 
come  to  lie  on  my  shoulders.  I 
had  taken  the  trust  of  one  whom 
I  thought  to  be  a  staid  country 
lass,  and  lo  !  I  had  found  her  as 
full  of  human  passion  as  any 
lady  of  the  court.  'Twas  like 
some  g-room  who  offers  to  break 
a  horse,  and  finds  it  too  stiff  in 
temper.      I   had   striven  to   do 


DA  UGHTER  OF  HEROD  I  A  S.     1 65 

my  duty  toward  her  and  make 
her  hfe   less  wearisome,  and  I 
had    succeeded    all    too    well. 
For    I    marked    that    in     the 
days  just  past  she  had  come  to 
regard  me  with  eyes  too  kindly 
by  half.     When   I  caught   her 
unawares,  and  saw  the  curious 
look  on  her  face,  I  could  have 
bitten     my    tongue    out    with 
regret,  for  I  saw  the  chasm  to 
whose  brink  I  had  led  her.    I 
will  take  my  oath  there  was  no 
thought  of  guile  in  the   maid, 
for   she   was  as   innocent  as   a 
child ;    but    'tis   such   who   are 
oftentimes  the  very  devil,  since 
their  inexperience  adds  an  edge 
to  their  folly. 

Thinking   such    thoughts,    I 
fished  up  the  Lin  Water  till  the 


1 66  S/j?  QUIXOTE. 

afternoon  was  all  but  past,  and 
the  sunset  began  to  glimmer  in 
the  bog-pools.  My  mind  was  a 
whirl  of  emotions,  and  no  plan 
or  order  could  I  conceive.  But — • 
and  this  one  thing  I  have  often 
marked,  that  the  weather  curi- 
ously affected  my  temper — the 
soft  evening  light  brought  with 
it  a  calm  which  eased  me  in  the 
conflict.  'Tis  hard  to  wrangle 
in  spirit  when  the  west  is  a  flare 
of  crimson,  and  later  when  each 
blue  hill  stands  out  sharp  against 
the  yellow  sky.  My  way  led 
through  the  great  pine  wood 
above  the  Lin  gorge,  thence 
over  a  short  spit  of  heath  to  the 
hill  path  and  the  ordered  shrub- 
bery of  the  manse.  'Twas  fine 
to  see  the  tree  stems  stand  out 


DA  UGH  TER  OF  HEROD  I  A  S.    167 

red  against  the  gathering  dark- 
^  ness,  while  their  thick  ever- 
green heads  were  blazing  like 
flambeaux.  A  startled  owl 
drove  past,  wavering  among  the 
trunks.  The  air  was  so  still  that 
the  light  and  color  seemed  all 
but  audible,  and  indeed  the  dis- 
tant rumble  of  the  falling  stream 
seemed  the  interpretation  to 
the  ears  of  the  vision  which  the 
eyes  beheld.  I  love  such  sights, 
and  'tis  rarely  enough  that  we 
see  them  in  France,  for  it  takes 
a  stormy  upland  country  to 
show  to  its  full  the  sinking  of 
the  sun.  The  heath  with  its 
dead  heather,  when  I  came  on 
it,  seemed  alight,  as  happens  in 
March,  so  I  have  heard,  when 
the  shepherds  burn  the  moun- 


1 68  s/7i  QUIXOTE. 

tain  grass.  But  in  the  manse 
garden  was  the  choicest  sight, 
for  there  the  fading  hght 
seemed  drawn  to  a  point  and 
blazing  on  the  low  bushes  and 
coarse  lawns.  Each  window  in 
the  house  glowed  like  a  jewel, 
but — mark  the  wonder — when 
I  gazed  over  the  country  there 
was  no  view  to  be  seen,  but  only 
a  slowly  creeping  darkness. 

'Twas  an  eerie  sight,  and 
beautiful  beyond  telling.  It 
awed  me,  and  yet  filled  me 
with  a  great  desire  to  see  it  to 
the  full.  So  I  did  not  enter 
the  house,  but  turned  my  steps 
round  by  the  back  to  gain  the 
higher  ground,  for  the  manse 
was  built  on  a  slope.  I  loitered 
past    the    side     window,    and 


DA  UGH 7  ER  OF  HEROD/ A  S.    169 

gained  the  place  I  had  chosen ; 
but  I  did  not  bide  long,  for 
soon  the  show  was  gone,  and 
only  a  chill  autumn  dusk  left 
behind.  So  I  made  to  enter 
the  house,  when  I  noticed  a 
light  as  of  firelight  dancing  in 
the  back  window.  Now,  I  had 
never  been  in  that  room  before, 
so  what  must  I  do  in  my  idle 
curiosity  but  go  peeping  there. 
The  room  was  wide  and  un- 
furnished, with  a  fire  blazing 
on  the  hearth.  But  what  held 
me  amazed  were  the  figures  on 
the  floor.  Anne,  with  her  skirts 
kilted,  stood  erect  and  agile  as 
if  about  to  dance.  The  girl 
Eff  sat  by  the  fireplace,  hum- 
ming some  light  measure.  The 
ruddy   light    bathed    the    floor 


1 7°         .     SIR  QUIXOTE. 

and  walls  and  made  all  distinct 
as  noonday. 

'Twas  as  I  had  guessed.  In 
a  trice  her  feet  began  to  move, 
and  soon  she  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  first  dance  I  had  taught 
her,  while  la  petite  Eff  sang  the 
tune  in  her  clear,  low  voice.  I 
have  seen  many  dancers,  great 
ladies  and  country  dames,  vil- 
lage lasses  and  burgher  wives, 
gypsies  and  wantons,  but,  by 
my  honor,  I  never  saw  one 
dance  like  Anne.  Her  body 
moved  as  if  by  one  impulse 
with  her  feet.  Now  she  would 
bend  like  a  willow,  and  now 
whirl  like  the  leaves  of  the 
wood  in  an  autumn  gale.  She 
was  dressed,  as  was  her  wont, 
in  sober  brown,  but  sackcloth 


DA  UGH  TER  OF  HEROD  I  A  S.     171 

could  not  have  concealed  the 
grace  of  her  form.  The  fire- 
light danced  and  leaped  in  her 
hair,  for  her  face  was  turned 
from  me  ;  and  'twas  fine  to  see 
the  snow  of  her  neck  islanded 
among  the  waves  of  brown 
tresses.  With  a  sudden  swift 
dart  she  turned  her  face  to  the 
window,  and  had  I  not  been 
well  screened  by  the  shadows, 
I  fear  I  should  have  been  ob- 
served. But  such  a  sight  as 
her  face  I  never  hope  to  see 
again.  The  solemnity  was 
gone,  and  'twas  all  radiant  with 
youth  and  life.  Her  eyes 
shone  like  twin  stars,  the  even 
brown  of  her  cheeks  was 
flushed  with  firelight,  and  her 
throat  and  bosom  heaved  with 


17  2  SI  J?  QUIXOTE. 

the  excitement  of  the  dance. 
Then  she  stopped  exhausted, 
smiled  on  Eff,  who  sat  like  a 
cinder-witch  all  the  while,  and 
smoothed  the  hair  from  her 
brow. 

"  Have  I  done  it  well  ?  "  she 
asked. 

'  "As  weel  as  he  did  it  him- 
selV  the  child  answered.  "  Eh, 
but  you  twae  would  make  a 
bonny  pair." 

I  turned  away  abruptly  and 
crept  back  to  the  garden  path, 
my  heart  sinking  within  me, 
and  a  feeling  of  guilt  in  my 
soul.  I  was  angry  at  myself 
for  eavesdropping,  angry  and 
ashamed.  But  a  great  dread 
came  on  me  as  I  thought  of 
the  girl,  this  firebrand,  who  had 


DA  UGH  TER  OF  HER  ODIA  S.    1 7  3 

been  trusted  to  my  keeping. 
Lackaday  for  the  peace  of 
mind  of  a  man  who  has  to  see 
to  a  maid  who  could  dance  in 
this  fashion,  with  her  father 
and  lover  in  the  cold  hills  ! 
And  always  I  called  to  mind 
that  I  had  been  her  teacher, 
and  that  my  lessons,  begun  as 
a  harmless  sport  to  pass  the 
time,  were  like  to  breed  an 
overmastering  passion.  Mon 
Dieu  !  I  was  like  the  man  in 
the  Eastern  tale  who  had  raised 
a  spirit  which  he  was  powerless 
to  control. 

And  just  then,  as  if  to  point 
my  meditations,  I  heard  the 
cry  of  a  plover  from  the  moor 
behind,  and  a  plaff  of  the  chill 
night-wind  blew  in  my  face. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOW   I    SET   THE    SIGNAL. 

HEN  I  set  out  to  write 
this  history  in  the 
EngHsh  tongue,  that 
none  of  my  own  house  might 
read  it,  I  did  not  know  the  hard 
task  that  lay  before  me.  For  if 
I  were  writing  it  in  my  own  lan- 
guage, I  could  tell  the  niceties 
of  my  feelings  in  a  way  which 
is  impossible  for  me  in  any 
other.  And,  indeed,  to  make 
my  conduct  intelligible,  I  should 
forthwith  fall  to  telling  each 
shade  of  motive  and  impulse 
174 


IWIV  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     175 

which  came  to  harass  my  mind. 
But  I  am  little  skilled  in  this 
work,  so  I  must  needs  recount 
only  the  landmarks  of  my  life, 
or  I  should  never  reach  the  end. 
I  slept  ill  that  night,  and  at 
earliest  daylight  was  awake  and 
dressing.  The  full  gravity  of 
the  case  was  open  to  me  now, 
and  you  may  guess  that  my 
mind  was  no  easy  one.  I  went 
down  to  the  sitting  room,  where 
the  remains  of  the  last  night's 
supper  still  lay  on  the  table. 
The  -white  morning  light  made 
all  things  clear  and  obtrusive, 
and  I  remember  wishing  that 
the  lamp  was  lit  again  and  the 
shutters  closed.  But  in  a  trice 
all  meditations  were  cast  to  the 
winds,  for  I  heard  the  door  at 


176  5/7?  QUIXOTE. 

the  back  of  the  house  flung  vio- 
lently open  and  the  sound  of 
a  man's  feet  on  the  kitchen 
floor. 

I  knew  that  I  was  the  only 
one  awake  in  the  house,  so  with 
much  haste  I  passed  out  of  the 
room  to  ascertain  who  the  visi- 
tor might  be.  In  the  center  of 
the  back  room  stood  a  great 
swart  man,  shaking  the  rain 
from  his  clothes  and  hair,  and 
waiting  like  one  about  to  give 
some  message.  When  he  saw 
me  he  took  a  step  forward, 
scanned  me  closely,  and  then 
waited  my  question. 

*'  Who  in  the  devil's  name 
are  you  ?  "  I  asked  angrily,  for 
I  was  half  amazed  and  half 
startled  by  his  sudden  advent. 


HO  W  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     1 7 7 

"  In  the  Lord's  name  I  am 
Andrew  Gibb,"  he  responded 
solemnly. 

"  And  what's  your  errand  ?" 
I  asked  further. 

"  Bide  a  wee  and  you'll  hear. 
You'll  be  the  foreigner  whae 
stops  at  the  manse  the  noo  ?  " 

"Go  on,"  I  said  shortly. 

"Thae  twae  sants,  Maister 
Lambert  and  Maister  Semple, 
'ill  ha'e  made  some  kind  o'  cov- 
enant wi'  you  ?  At  ony  rate, 
hear  my  news  and  dae  your 
best.  Their  hidy-hole  at  the 
held  o'  the  Stark  Water's  been 
betrayed,  and  unless  they  get 
warning  it  '11  be  little  you'll 
hear  mair  o'  them.  I've  aye 
been  their  freend,  so  I  cam' 
here  to  do  my  pairt  by  them." 


178  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

"  Are  you  one  of  the  hill- 
men  r 

"  Na,  na  !  God  forbid  !  I'm  a 
douce,  quiet-leevin'  man,  and 
I'd  see  the  Kirk  rummle  aboot 
their  lugs  ere  I'd  stir  my  shanks 
frae  my  ain  fireside.  But  I'm 
behauden  to  the  minister  for  the 
Hfe  o'  my  bairn,  whilk  is  ower 
lang  a  story  for  ye  to  hear  ;  and 
to  help  him  I  would  rin  frae 
Maidenkirk  to  Berwick.  So 
I've  aye  made  it  my  wark  to 
pick  up  ony  word  o'  scaith  that 
was  comin'  to  him,  and  that's 
why  I'm  here  the  day.  Ye've 
heard  my  news  richt,  ye're 
shure  ?  " 

"I've  heard  your  news.  Will 
you  take  any  food  before  you 
leave  ?  " 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGXAL.     179 

"  Na  ;  I  maun  be  off  to  be 
back  ill  time  for  the  kye," 

"  Well,  good-day  to  you,  An- 
drew Gibb,"  I  said,  and  in  a 
minute  the  man  was  gone. 

Now,  here  I  must  tell  what 
I  omitted  to  tell  in  a  former 
place. — that  when  the  exiles 
took  to  the  hills  they  bade  me, 
if  I  heard  any  word  of  danger 
to  their  hiding-place,  to  go  by 
a  certain  path,  which  they 
pointed  out,  to  a  certain  place, 
and  there  overturn  a  little  cairn 
of  stones.  This  was  to  be  a 
signal  to  them  for  instant  move- 
ment. I  knew  nothing  of  the 
place  of  their  retreat,  and  for 
this  reason  could  swear  on  my 
oath  with  an  easy  conscience ; 
but  this  scrap  of  enlightenment 


l8o  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

I  had,  a  scrap  of  momentous 
import  for  both  life  and  death. 
I  turned  back  to  the  parlor 
in  a  fine  confusion  of  mind.  By 
some  means  or  other  the  task 
which  was  now  before  me  had 
come  to  seem  singularly  disa- 
greeable. The  thought  of  my 
entertainers — I  am  ashamed  to 
write  it — was  a  bitter  thought. 
I  had  acquired  a  reasonless 
dislike  to  them.  What  cause 
had  they,  I  asked,  to  be  crouch- 
ing in  hill-caves  and  first  getting 
honest  gentlemen  into  delicate 
and  difificult  positions,  and  then 
troubling  them  with  dangerous 
errands.  Then  there  was  the 
constant  vision  of  the  maid  to 
vex  me.  This  was  the  sorest 
point    of   all.     For,    though     I 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     iSl 

blush  to  own  it,  the  sight  of  her 
was  not  altogether  unpleasing 
to  me  ;  nay,  to  put  it  positively, 
I  had  come  almost  to  feel  an 
affection  for  her.  She  was  so 
white  and  red  and  golden,  all 
light  and  gravity,  with  the 
shape,  of  a  princess,  the  mien 
of  a  goddess,  and,  for  all  I  knew 
the  heart  of  a  dancing-girl. 
She  carried  with  her  the  air  of 
comfort  and  gayety,  and  the 
very  thought  of  her  made  me 
shrink  from  the  dark  moors  and 
ill-boding  errand  as  from  the 
leprosy. 

There  is  in  every  man  a  latent 
will,  apart  altogether  from  that 
which  he  uses  in  common  life, 
which  is  apt  at  times  to  assert 
itself  when  he  least  expects  it. 


1 82  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

Such  was  my  honor,  for  lo !  I 
found  myself  compelled  by  an 
inexorable  force  to  set  about 
the  performance  of  my  duty. 
I  take  no  credit  for  it,  since 
I  was  only  half  willing,  my 
grosser  inclination  being  all 
against  it.  But  something 
bade  me  do  it,  calling  me  pol- 
troon, coward,  traitor,  if  I  re- 
fused ;  so  ere  I  left  the  kitchen 
I  had  come  to  a  fixed  decision. 

To  my  wonder,  at  the  stair- 
case foot  I  met  Anne,  dressed, 
but  with  her  hair  all  in  disorder. 
I  stood  booted  and  cloaked  and 
equipped  for  the  journey,  and 
at  the  sight  of  me  her  face  filled 
with  surprise. 

"  Where  away  so  early, 
John  ?"  says  she. 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     183 

"  Where  away  so  early,  Mis- 
tress Anne?"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  I  slept  ill,  and  came 
down  to  get  the  morning  air." 
I  noted  that  her  eyes  were  dull 
and  restless,  and  I  do  believe 
that  the  poor  maid  had  had  a 
sorry  night  of  it.  A  sharp 
fear  at  my  heart  told  me  the 
cause. 

"Anne,"  I  said  sullenly,  "I 
am  going  on  a  hard  errand,  and 
I  entreat  you  to  keep  out  of 
harm's  way  till   I   return." 

"And  what  is  your  errand, 
pray? "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing  less  than  to  save 
the  lives  of  your  father  and 
your  lover.  I  have  had  word 
from  a  secret  source  of  a  great 
danger  which  overhangs  them, 


1 84  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

and  by  God's  help  I  would  re- 
move it." 

At  my  word  a  light,  half 
angry  and  half  pathetic,  came 
to  her  eyes.  It  passed  like  a 
sungleam,  and  in  its  place  was 
left  an  expression  of  cold  dis- 
taste. 

"Then  God  prosper  you," 
she  said,  in  a  formal  tone,  and 
with  a  whisk  of  her  skirts  she 
was  gone. 

I  strode  out  into  the  open 
with  my  heart  the  battlefield 
of  a  myriad  contending  pas- 
sions. 

I  reached  the  hill,  over- 
turned the  cairn,  and  set  out 
on  my  homeward  way,  hardly 
giving  but  one  thought  to  the 
purport    of    my    errand   or  the 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     185 

two  fugitives  whom  it  was  my 
mission  to  save,  so  filled  was 
my  mind  with  my  own  trouble. 
The  road  home  was  long  and 
arduous;  and  more,  I  had  to 
creep  often  like  an  adder  lest  I 
should  be  spied  and  traced  by 
some  chance  dragoon.  The 
weather  was  dull  and  cold,  and 
a  slight  snow,  the  first  token 
of  winter,  sprinkled  the  moor. 
The  heather  was  wet,  the  long 
rushes  dripped  and  shivered, 
and  in  the  little  trenches  the 
peat-water  lay  black  as  ink.  A 
smell  of  damp  hung  over  all 
things,  an  odor  of  rotten- leaves 
and  soaked  earth.  The  heavy 
mist  rolled  in  volumes  close  to 
the  ground  and  choked  me  as  I 
bent  low.     Every  little  while  I 


1 86  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

stumbled  into  a  bog,  and  foully 
bedaubed  my  clothes.  I  think 
that  I  must  have  strayed  a 
little  from  the  straight  path, 
for  I  took  near  twice  as  long  to 
return  as  to  go.  A  swollen 
stream  delayed  me,  for  I  had 
to  traverse  its  bank  for  a  mile 
ere  I  could  cross. 

In  truth,  I  cannot  put  down 
on  paper  my  full  loathing  of 
the  place.  I  had  hated  the 
moors  on  my  first  day's  jour- 
ney, but  now  I  hated  them 
with  a  tenfold  hatred.  For 
each  whiff  of  sodden  air,  each 
spit  of  chill  rain  brought  back 
to  my  mind  all  the  difificulty  of 
my  present  state.  Then  I  had 
always  the  vision  of  Anne  sit- 
ting at  home  by  the  fire,  warm, 


I/O IV  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     187 

clean,  and  dainty,  the  very 
counter  of  the  foul  morasses 
in  which  I  labored,  and  where 
the  men  I  had  striven  to  rescue 
were  thought  to  lie  hidden. 
My  loathing  was  so  great  that 
I  could  scarce  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  travel  the  weary  miles 
to  the  manse,  every  step  being 
taken  solely  on  the  fear  of  re- 
maining behind.  To  make  it 
worse,  there  would  come  to 
vex  me  old  airs  of  France,  airs 
of  childhood  and  my  adven- 
turous youth,  fraught  for  me 
with  memories  of  gay  nights 
and  brave  friends.  I  own  that 
I  could  have  wept  to  think  of 
them  and  find  myself  all  the 
while  in  this  inhospitable 
desert. 


1 88  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

'Tvvould  be  near  mid-day,  I 
think,  when  I  came  to  the 
manse  door,  glad  that  my  jour- 
ney was  ended.  Anne  let  me 
in,  and  in  a  moment  all  was 
changed.  The  fire  crackled  in 
the  room,  and  the  light  danced 
on  the  great  volumes  on  the 
shelves.  The  gray  winter  was 
shut  out  and  a  tranquil  summer 
reigned  within.  Anne,  like  a 
Lent  lily,  so  fair  was  she,  sat 
sewing  by  the   hearth. 

"  You  are  returned,"  she  said 
coldly. 

"■  I  am  returned,"  I  said 
severely,  for  her  callousness  to 
the  danger  of  her  father  was 
awful  to  witness,  though  in  my 
heart  of  hearts  I  could  not  have 
wished    it    otherwise.     As    she 


HOJV  I  SET  THE  SIG.VAL.     189 

sat  there,  with  her  white  arms 
moving  athwart  her  lap,  and 
her  hair  tossed  over  her  shoul- 
ders, I  could  have  clasped  her 
to  my  heart.  Nay,  I  had 
almost  done  so,  had  I  not 
gripped  my  chair,  and  sat  with 
pale  face  and  dazed  eyes  till 
the  fit  had  passed.  I  have  told 
you  ere  now  how  my  feelings 
toward  Anne  had  changed 
from  interest  to  something  not 
unlike  a  passionate  love.  It 
had  been  a  thing  of  secret 
growth,  and  I  scarcely  knew  it 
till  I  found  myself  in  the  midst 
of  it.  I  tried  to  smother  it 
hourly,  when  my  better  nature 
was  in  the  ascendant,  and  hourly 
I  was  overthrown  in  the  contest 
I  fought  against  terrible  odds. 


190  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

'Twas  not  hard  to  see  from  her 
longing  eyes  and  timorous  con- 
duct that  to  her  I  was  the 
greater  half  of  the  world.  I 
had  but  to  call  to  her  and  she 
would  come.  And  yet — God 
knows  how  I  stifled  that  cry. 

At  length  I  rose  and  strode 
out  into  the  garden  to  cool  my 
burning  head.  The  sleet  was 
even  grateful  to  me,  and  I 
bared  my  brow  till  hair  and 
skin  were  wet  with  the  rain. 
Down  by  the  rows  of  birch 
trees  I  walked,  past  the  rough 
ground  where  the  pot-herbs 
were  grown,  till  I  came  to  the 
shady  green  lawn.  Up  and 
down  it  I  passed,  striving  hard 
with  my  honor  and  my  love, 
fighting   that   battle  which    all 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     191 

must  fight  some  time  or  other 
in  their  Hves  and  be  victorious 
or  vanquished  forever. 

Suddenly,  to  my  wonder,  I 
saw  a  face  looking  at  me  from 
beneath  a  tuft  of  elderberry. 

I  drew  back,  looked  again, 
and  at  the  second  glance  I 
recognized  it.  'Twas  the  face 
of  Master  Henry  Temple  of 
Clachlands — and   the  hills. 

'Twas  liker  the  face  of  a  wild 
goat  than  a  man.  The  thin 
features  stood  out  so  strongly 
that  all  the  rest  seemed  to  fall 
back  from  them.  The  long, 
ragged  growth  of  hair  on  lip 
and  chin,  and  the  dirt  on  his 
cheeks,  made  him  unlike  my 
friend  of  the  past.  But  the 
memorable  change  was  in  his 


192  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

eyes,  which  glowed  large  and 
lustrous,  Avith  the  whites  greatly 
extended,  and  all  tinged  with  a 
yellow  hue.  Fear  and  priva- 
tion had  done  their  work,  and 
before  me  stood  their  finished 
product. 

"  Good  Heavens,  Henry  ! 
What  brings  you  here,  and 
how  have   you    fared  ?  " 

He  stared  at  me  without 
replying,  which  I  noted  as 
curious. 

"Where  is  Anne?"  he  asked 
huskily. 

"  She  is  in  the  house,  well 
and  unscathed.  Shall  I  call 
her  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nay,  for  God's  sake,  nay  !  I 
am  no  pretty  sight  for  a  young 
maid.     You  say  she  is  well  ?" 


HO IV  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.    193 

"  Ay,  very  well.  But  how  is 
the  minister  ?" 

"  Alas,  he  is  all  but  gone. 
The  chill  has  entered  his  bones, 
and  even  now  he  may  be  pass- 
ing. The  child  will  soon  be  an 
orphan." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  no  worse  than  the 
others  on  whom  the  Lord's 
hand  is  laid.  There  is  a  ring- 
ing in  my  head  and  a  pain  at 
my  heart,  but  I  am  still  hale 
and  fit  to  testify  to  the  truth. 
Oh,  man,  'twill  ill  befa'  those  in 
the  day  of  judgment  who  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness  and  dwell 
in  peace  in  thae  weary  times." 

"  Come  into  the  house ;  or 
nay,  I  will  fetch  you  food  and 
clothing." 


194  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

"  Nay,  bring  nought  for  me. 
I  would  rather  live  in  rags  and 
sup  on  a  crust  than  be  habited 
in  purple  and  fare  sumptuously. 
I  ask  ye  but  one  thing  :  let  the 
maid  walk  in  the  garden  that  I 
may  see  her.  And,  oh,  man  !  I 
thank  ye  for  your  kindness  to 
me  and  mine.  I  pray  the  Lord 
ilka  night  to  think  on  ye  here." 

I  could  not  trust  myself  to 
speak. 

"I  will  do  as  you  wish,"  I 
said,  and  without  another  word 
set  off  sharply  for  the  house. 

I  entered  the  sitting  room 
wearily,  and  flung  myself  on  a 
chair.  Anne  sat  sewing  as  be- 
fore. She  started  as  I  entered, 
and  I  saw  the  color  rise  to  her 
cheeks  and  brow. 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGA'AL.     195 

"You  are  pale,  my  dear,"  I 
said;  "the  day  is  none  so  bad, 
and  'twould  do  you  no  ill  to 
walk  round  the  garden  to  the 
gate.  I  have  just  been  there, 
and,  would  you  believe  it,  the 
grass  is  still  wondrous  green." 

She  rose  demurely  and  obedi- 
ently as  if  my  word  were  the 
law  of  her  life. 

"  Pray  bring  me  a  sprig  of 
ivy  from  the  gate-side,"  I 
cried  after  her,  laughing,  "  to 
show  me  that  you  have  been 
there," 

I  sat  and  kicked  my  heels  till 
her  return  in  a  miserable  state 
of  impatience.  I  could  not 
have  refused  to  let  the  man 
see  his  own  betrothed,  but  God 
only  knew  what  desperate  act 


196  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

he  might  do.  He  might  spring 
out  and  clasp  her  in  his  arms ; 
she,  I  knew,  had  not  a  shred  of 
affection  left  for  him ;  she 
would  be  cold  and  resentful ; 
he  would  suspect,  and  then — 
what  an  end  there  might  be  to 
it  all !  I  longed  to  hear  the 
sound  of  her  returning  foot- 
steps. 

She  came  in  soon,  and  sat 
down  in  her  wonted  chair  by 
the  fire. 

"There's  your  ivy,  John," 
said  she  ;  "  'tis  raw  and  chilly  in 
the  garden,  and  I  love  the  fire- 
side better." 

'"TisAvell,"  I  thought,  "she 
has  not  seen  Master  Semple." 
Now  I  could  not  suffer  him  to 
depart    without    meeting   him 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     197 

again,  partly  out  of  pity  for  the 
man,  partly  to  assure  my  own 
mind  that  no  harm  would  come 
of  it.  So  I  feigned  an  errand 
and  went  out. 

I  found  him,  as  I  guessed, 
still  in  the  elder-bush,  a  tenfold 
stranger  sight  than  before.  His 
eyes  burned  uncannily.  His 
thin  cheeks  seemed  almost 
transparent  with  the  tension  of 
the  bones,  and  he  chewed  his 
lips  unceasingly.  At  the  sight 
of  me  he  came  out  and  stood 
before  me,  as  wild  a  figure  as  I 
ever  hope  to  see — clothes  in 
tatters,  hair  unkempt,  and  skin 
all  foul  with  the  dirt  of  the 
moors.  His  back  was  bowed; 
and  his  knees  seemed  to  have 
lost     all     strength,     for    they 


198  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

tottered  against  one  another. 
I  prayed  that  his  sufferings 
migh  not  have  turned  him 
mad. 

At  the  first  word  he  spake  I 
was  convinced  of  it. 

"  I  have  seen  her,  I  have  seen 
her!"  he  cried.  "She  is  more 
fair  than  a  fountain  of  gardens, 
a  well  of  living  waters,  and 
streams  from  Lebanon.  Oh,  I 
have  dreamed  of  her  by  night 
among  the  hills,  and  seen  her 
face  close  to  me  and  tried  to 
catch  it,  but  'twas  gone.  Oh, 
man,  John,  get  down  on  your 
knees,  and  pray  to  God  to  make 
you  worthy  to  have  the  charge 
of  such  a  treasure.  Had  the 
Lord  not  foreordained  that  she 
should  me  mine,  I  should  ne'er 


HOW  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.     199 

have  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  her, 
for  who  am  I  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  man,"  I 
broke  in,  "  tell  me  where  you 
are  going,  and  be  about  it  quick, 
for  you  may  be  in  instant 
danger." 

"Ay,"  says  he, "  you  are  right. 
I  must  be  gone.  I  have  seen 
enough.  I  maun  away  to  the 
deserts  and  caves  of  the  rocks, 
and  it  may  be  lang,  lang  ere  I 
come  back.  But  my  love  winna 
forget  me.  Na,  na ;  the  Lord 
hath  appointed  unto  me  that  I 
shall  sit  at  his  right  hand  on 
the  last,  the  great  day,  and  she 
shall  be  by  my  side.  For  oh, 
she  is  the  only  one  of  her 
mother;  she  is  the  choice  one 
of  her  that  bare  her ;  the  daugh- 


2 CO  S//?  QUIXOTE. 

ters  saw  her  and  blessed  her ; 
yea,  the  queens  and  concubines, 
and  they  praised  her."  And 
with  some  hke  gibberish  from 
the  Scriptures  he  disappeared 
through  the  bushes,  and  next 
minute  I  saw  him  running  along 
the  moor  toward  the  hills. 

These  were  no  love-sick  rav- 
ings, but  the  wild  cries  of  a 
madman,  one  whose  reason  had 
gone  forever.  I  walked  back 
slowly  to  the  house.  It  seemed 
almost  profane  to  think  of 
Anne,  so  wholesome  and  sane, 
in  the  same  thought  as  this  foul 
idiot ;  and  yet  this  man  had 
been  once  as  whole  in  mind  and 
body  as  myself  ;  he  had  suffered 
in  a  valiant  cause ;  and  I  was 
bound  to  him  by  the  strongest 


HOiV  I  SET  THE  SIGNAL.    201 

of  all  bonds — my  plighted 
word.  I  groaned  inwardly  as  I 
shut  the  house-door  behind  me 
and  entered  into  the  arena  of 
my  struggles. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

I   COMMUNE   WITH   MYSELF. 

f.WAS  late  afternoon 
when  I  re-entered,  and 
ere  supper  was  past 
'twas  time  to  retire  for  the 
night.  The  tension  of  these 
hours  I  still  look  back  on  as 
something  altogether  dreadful. 
Anne  was  quiet  and  gentle,  un- 
conscious of  what  had  hap- 
pened, yet  with  the  fire  of  pas- 
sion, I  knew  too  well,  burning 
in  her  heart.  I  was  ill,  rest- 
less, and  abrupt,  scarce  able  to 
speak  lest  I  should  betray  my 


SELF-COMMUNINGS.       203 

thoughts  and  show  the  war  that 
raged  in  my  breast. 

I  made  some  excuse  for  retir- 
ing early,  bidding  her  good- 
night with  as  nonchalant  an  air 
as  I  could  muster.  The  door 
of  my  bedroom  I  locked  be- 
hind me,  and  I  was  alone  in  the 
darkened  room  to  fight  out  my 
battles  with  myself. 

I  ask  you  if  you  can  conceive 
any  gentleman  and  man  of 
honor  in  a  more  hazardous 
case.  Whenever  I  tried  to 
think  on  it,  a  mist  came  over 
my  brain,  and  I  could  get  little 
but  unmeaning  fantasies.  I 
must  either  go  or  stay.  So 
much   was   clear. 

If  I  stayed — well,  'twas  the 
Devil's  own  work  that  was  cut 


204  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

for  me.  There  was  no  sign  of 
the  violence  of  the  persecution 
abating.  It  might  be  many 
months,  nay  years,  before  the 
minister  and  Master  Semple 
might  return.  If  they  came 
back  no  more,  and  I  had  sure 
tidings  of  their  death,  then 
indeed  I  might  marry  Anne. 
But  'twas  so  hazardous  an  un- 
certainty that  I  rejected  it  at 
once.  No  man  could  dwell 
with  one  whom  he  loved  heart 
and  soul  so  long  a  time  on  such 
uncertain  chances  and  yet  keep 
his  honor.  Had  the  maid  been 
dull  and  passive,  or  had  I  been 
sluggish  in  blood,  then  there 
might  have  been  hope.  But 
Ave  were  both  quick  as  the 
summer's  lightning. 


SELF-COMMUNINGS.       205 

If  they  came  back,  was  not 
the  fate  of  the  girl  more  hard 
than  words  could  tell  ?  The 
minister  in  all  likelihood  would 
already  have  gone  the  way  of 
all  the  earth  ;  and  she,  poor 
lass,  would  be  left  to  the  care 
of  a  madman  for  whom  she  had 
no  spark  of  liking.  I  pictured 
her  melancholy  future.  Her 
pure  body  subject  to  the  em- 
braces of  a  loathsome  fanatic, 
her  delicate  love  of  the  joys  of 
life  all  subdued  to  his  harsh 
creed.  Oh,  God  !  I  swore  that 
I  could  not  endure  it.  Her  face, 
so  rounded  and  lovely,  would 
grow  pinched  and  white,  her 
eyes  would  lose  all  their  luster, 
her  hair  would  not  cluster  lov- 
ingly about  her  neck,  her  lithe 


2o6  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

grace  would  be  gone,  her  foot- 
steps would  be  heavy  and  sad. 
He  would  rave  his  unmeaning- 
gibberish  in  her  ears,  would  ill- 
treat  her,  it  might  be ;  in  any 
case  would  be  a  perpetual  sor- 
row to  her  heart.  "Oh,  Anne,"  I 
cried,  "  though  I  be  damned  for 
it,  I  will  save  you  from  this  !  " 

If  I  left  the  place  at  once  and 
forever,  then  indeed  my  honor 
would  be  kept,  but  yet  not  all ; 
for  my  plighted  word — where 
would  it  be  ?  I  had  sworn  that 
come  what  may  I  should  stand 
by  the  maid  and  protect  her 
against  what  evil  might  come  to 
the  house.  Now  I  was  think- 
ing of  fleeing  from  my  post  like 
a  coward,  and  all  because  the 
girl's  eyes  were  too  bright  for 


SELF-  CO  MM  UNINGS.       207 

my  weak  resolution.  When 
her  lover  returned,  if  he  ever 
came,  what  story  would  she 
have  to  tell  ?  This,  without  a 
doubt :  "  The  man  whom  you 
left  has  gone,  fled  like  a  thief 
in  the  night,  for  what  reason  I 
know  not."  For  though  I  knew 
well  that  she  would  divine  the 
real  cause  of  my  action,  I  could 
not  suppose  that  she  would  tell 
it,  for  thereby  she  would  cast 
grave  suspicion  upon  herself. 
So  there  would  I  be,  a  perjured 
traitor,  a  false  friend  in  the  eyes 
of  those  who  had  trusted  me. 

But  more,  the  times  were  vio- 
lent, Clachlands  and  its  soldiery 
were  nor  far  off,  and  once  they 
learned  that  the  girl  was  unpro- 
tected no  man  knew  what  evil 


2o8  SIA'  QUIXOTE. 

might  follow.  You  may  imagine 
how  bitter  this  thought  was  to 
me,  the  thought  of  leaving  my 
love  in  the  midst  of  terrible  dan- 
gers. Nay,  more  ;  a  selfish  con- 
sideration weighed  not  a  little 
with  me.  The  winter  had  all  but 
come  ;  the  storms  of  this  black 
land  I  dreaded  like  one  born 
and  bred  in  the  South ;  I  knew 
nothing  of  my  future  course  ;  I 
was  poor,  bare,  and  friendless. 
The  manse  was  a  haven  of  shel- 
ter. Without  it  I  should  be  even 
as  the  two  exiles  in  the  hills. 
The  cold  was  hard  to  endure  ; 
I  dearly  loved  warmth  and  com- 
fort ;  the  moors  were  as  fearful 
to  me  as  the  deserts  of  Mus- 
covy. 

One  course  remained.     Anne 


SELF-  COMM  UNINGS.       209 

had  money;  this  much  I  knew. 
She  loved  me,  and  would  obey 
my  will  in  all  things ;  of  this  I 
was  certain.  What  hindered  me 
to  take  her  to  France,  the  land 
of  mirth  and  all  pleasant  things, 
and  leave  the  North  and  its  wild 
folk  behind  forever  ?  With 
money  we  could  travel  expedi- 
tiously. Once  in  my  own  land 
perchance  I  might  find  some 
way  to  repair  my  fortunes,  for 
a  fair  wife  is  a  wonderous  incen- 
tive. There  beneath  soft  skies, 
in  the  mellow  sunshine,  among 
a  cheerful  people,  she  would 
find  the  life  which  she  loved 
best.  What  deterred  me? 
Nothing  but  a  meaningless  vow 
and  some  antiquated  scruples. 
But  I  would  be  really  keeping 


210  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

my  word,  I  reasoned  casuisti- 
cally  with  myself,  for  I  had 
sworn  to  take  care  of  Anne, 
and  what  way  so  good  as  to 
take  her  to  my  own  land  where 
she  would  be  far  from  the  reach 
of  fanatic  or  dragoon?  And 
this  was  my  serious  thought, 
comprenez  bieu  !  I  set  it  down 
as  a  sign  of  the  state  to  which 
I  had  come,  that  I  was  con- 
vinced  by  my  own  quibbling. 
I  pictured  to  myself  what  I 
should  do.  I  would  find  her 
at  breakfast  in  the  morning. 
"  Anne,"  I  would  say,  "  I  love 
you  dearly ;  may  I  think  that 
you  love  me  likewise?"  I 
could  fancy  her  eager,  passion- 
ate    reply,     and     then I 

almost  felt  the   breath  of  her 


SEL  F-  COMM  UNINGS.       2 1 1 

kisses  on  my  cheek  and  the 
touch  of  her  soft  arms  on  my 
neck. 

Some  impulse  led  me  to  open 
the  casement  and  look  forth 
into  the  windy,  inscrutable 
night:  A  thin  rain  distilled 
on  the  earth,  and  the  coolness 
was  refreshing  to  my  hot  face. 
The  garden  was  black,  and  the 
bushes  were  marked  by  an 
increased  depth  of  darkness. 
But  on  the  grass  to  the  left  I 
saw  a  long  shaft  of  light,  the 
reflection  from  some  lit  win- 
dow of  the  house.  I  passed 
rapidly  in  thought  over  the 
various  rooms  there,  and  with 
a  start  came  to  an  end. 
Without  a  doubt  'twas  Anne's 
sleeping  room.     What  did  the 


212  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

lass  with  a  light,  for  'twas 
near  midnight?  I  did  not 
hesitate  about  the  cause,  and 
'twas  one  which  inflamed  my 
love  an  hundredfold.  She 
was  sleepless,  love-sick  maybe 
(such  is  the  vanity  of  man). 
Maybe  even  now  my  name 
was  the  one  on  her  lips,  and 
my  image  the  foremost  in  her 
mind.  My  finger-tips  tingled, 
as  the  blood  surged  into 
them  ;  and  I  am  not  ashamed 
to  say  that  my  eyes  were 
not  tearless.  Could  I  ever 
leave  my  love  for  some  tawdry 
honor  ?  Mille  tonneres !  the 
thing  was  not  to  be  dreamed 
of.  I  blamed  myself  for 
having  once  admitted  the 
thought. 


SELF-COMMUNINGS.        213 

My  decision  was  taken,  and, 
as  was  always  my  way,  I  felt 
somewhat  easier.  I  was  weary, 
so  I  cast  myself  down  upon  the 
bed  without  undressing,  and 
fell   into    a   profound    sleep. 

How  long  I  slept  I  cannot 
tell,  but  in  that  brief  period  of 
unconsciousness  I  seemed  to 
be  living  ages.  I  saw  my  past 
life  all  inverted  as  'twere  ;  for 
my  first  sight  was  the  horror  of 
the  moors,  Ouentin  Kennedy, 
and  the  quarrel  and  the  black 
desolation  which  I  had  under- 
gone. I  went  through  it  all 
again,  vividly,  acutely.  Then 
it  passed,  and  I  had  my  man- 
hood in  France  before  my  eyes. 
And  curiously  enough,  'twas 
not    alone,  but   confused    with 


214  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

my  childhood  and  youth.  I 
was  an  experienced  man  of  the 
world,  versed  in  warfare  and 
love,  taverns  and  brawls,  and 
yet  not  one  whit  jaded,  but 
fresh  and  hopeful  and  boylike. 
'Twas  a  very  pleasing  feeling. 
I  was  master  of  myself.  I  had 
all  my  self-respect.  I  was  a 
man  of  unblemished  honor, 
undoubted  valor.  Then  by 
an  odd  trick  of  memory  all 
kinds  of  associations  became 
linked  with  it.  The  old  sights 
and  sounds  of  Rohaine :  cocks 
crowing  in  the  morning ;  the 
smell  of  hay  and  almond- 
blossom,  roses  and  summer 
lilies  ;  the  sight  of  green  leaves, 
of  the  fish  leaping  in  the  river; 
the   plash   of    the    boat's   oars 


SELF-  CO  MM  UNINGS.       2 1 5 

among-  the  water-weeds — all 
the  sensations  of  childhood 
came  back  with  extraordinary 
clarity.  I  heard  my  mother's 
grave,  tender  speech  bidding 
us  children  back  from  play,  or 
soothing  one  when  he  hurt  him- 
self. I  could  almost  believe 
that  my  father's  strong  voice 
was  ringing  in  my  ear,  when  he 
would  tell  stories  of  the  chase 
and  battle,  or  sing  ballads  of 
long  ago,  or  bid  us  go  to  the 
devil  if  we  pleased,  but  go  like 
gentlemen.  'Twas  a  piece  of 
sound  philosophy,  and  often 
had  it  been  before  me  in  Paris, 
when  I  shrank  from  nothing 
save  where  my  honor  as  a 
gentleman  was  threatened.  In 
that  dream  the  old  saying  came 


2i6  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

on  me  with  curious  force.  1 
felt  it  to  be  a  fine  motto  for 
life,  and  I  was  exulting  in  my 
heart  that  'twas  mine,  and  that 
I  had  never  stained  the  fair 
fame  of  my  house.  \ 

Suddenly,  with  a  start  I 
seemed  to  wake  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  'twas  mine  no 
more.  Still  dreaming,  I  was 
aware  that  I  had  deceived  a 
lover,  and  stolen  his  mistress 
and  made  her  my  bride.  I 
have  never  felt  such  acute 
anguish  as  I  did  in  that  sleep 
when  the  thought  came  upon 
me.  I  felt  nothing  more  of 
pride.  All  things  had  left  me. 
My  self-respect  was  gone  like 
a  ragged  cloak.  All  the  old, 
dear  life  was  shut  out  from  me 


SELF.  COMMUNINGS.       2 1 7 

by  a  huge  barrier.  Comfort- 
able, rich,  loving,  and  beloved, 
I  was  yet  in  the  very  jaws  of 
Hell.  I  felt  myself  biting  out 
my  tongue  in  my  despair.  My 
brain  was  on  fire  with  sheer 
and  awful  regret.  I  cursed  the 
day  when  I  had  been  tempted 
and  fallen. 

And  then,  even  while  I 
dreamed,  another  sight  came 
to  my  eyes — the  face  of  a  lady, 
young,  noble,  with  eyes  like 
the  Blessed  Mother.  In  my 
youth  I  had  laid  my  life  at  the 
feet  of  a  girl,  and  I  was  in 
hopes  of  making  her  my  wife. 
But  Cecilia  was  too  fair  for  this 
earth,  and  I  scarcely  dared  to 
look  upon  her  she  seemed  so 
saint-like.      When   she  died    in 


2i8  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

the  Forest  of  Arnay,  killed  by 
a  fall  from  her  horse,  'twas  I 
who  carried  her  to  her  home, 
and  since  that  day  her  face  was 
never  far  distant  from  my  mem- 
ory. I  cherished  the  image 
as  my  dearest  possession,  and 
oftentimes  when  I  would  have 
embarked  upon  some  madness 
I  refrained,  fearing  the  reproof 
of  those  grave  eyes.  But  now 
this  was  all  gone.  My  earthy 
passion  had  driven  out  my  old 
love ;  all  memories  were  rapt 
from  me  save  that  of  the  sordid 
present. 

The  very  violence  of  my  feel- 
ing awoke  me,  and  I  found 
myself  sitting  up  in  bed  with 
a  mouthful  of  blood.  Sure 
enough,    I    had     gnawed     my 


SELF-  CO  MM  UNINGS.       219- 

tongue  till  a  red  froth  was  over 
my  lips.  My  heart  was  beat- 
ing like  a  windmill  in  a  high 
gale,  and  a  deadly  sickness  of 
mind  oppressed  me.  'Twas 
some  minutes  before  I  could 
think;  and  then — oh,  joy!  the 
relief!  I  had  not  yet  taken 
the  step  irremediable.  The 
revulsion,  the  sudden  ecstasy 
drove  in  a  trice  my  former 
resolution  into  thinnest  air. 

I  looked  out  of  the  window. 
'Twas  dawn,  misty  and  wet. 
Thank  God,  I  was  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  still  free  to 
make  my  life.  The  tangible 
room,  half  lit  by  morning,  gave 
me  a  promise  of  reality  after 
the  pageant  of  the  dream.  My 
path  was  clear  before  me,  clear 


2  20  ^•/i?  QUIXOTE. 

and  straight  as  an  arrow ;  and 
yet  even  now  I  felt  a  dread  of 
my  passion  overcoming  my  re- 
solve, and  was  in  a  great  haste 
to  have  done  with  it  all.  My 
scruples  about  my  course  were 
all  gone.  I  would  be  breaking 
my  oath,  'twas  true,  in  leaving 
the  maid,  but  keeping  it  in  the 
better  way.  The  thought  of 
the  dangers  to  which  she  would 
be  exposed  stabbed  me  like  a 
dart.  It  had  almost  overcome 
me.  "  But  honor  is  more  than 
life  or  love,"  I  said,  as  I  set  my 
teeth  with  stern  purpose. 

Yet,  though  all  my  soul  was 
steeled  into  resolution,  there 
was  no  ray  of  hope  in  my  heart 
— nothing  but  a  dead,  bleak 
outlook,  a  land   of  moors   and 


SELF-  COMMUNINGS.       2  2 1 

rain,  an  empty   purse   and    an 
aimless  journey. 

I  had  come  to  the  house  a 
beggar  scarce  two  months  be- 
fore. I  must  now  go  as  I  had 
come,  not  free  and  careless  as 
then,  but  bursting  shackles  of 
triple  brass.  My  old  ragged 
garments,  which  I  had  dis- 
carded on  the  day  after  my 
arrival,  lay  on  a  chair,  neatly 
folded  by  Anne's  deft  hand.  It 
behooved  me  to  take  no  more 
away  than  that  which  I  had 
brought,  so  I  must  needs  clothe 
myself  in  these  poor  remnants 
of  finery,  thin  and  mud-stained, 
and  filled  with  many  rents. 


CHAPTER   X. 

OF   MY   DEPARTURE. 

PASSED  tlirough  the 
kitchen  out  to  the 
stable,  marking  as  I 
went  that  the  breakfast  was 
ready  laid  in  the  sitting  room. 
There  I  saddled  Saladin,  grown 
sleek  by  fat  living,  and  rolling 
his  great  eyes  at  me  wonder- 
ingly.  I  tested  the  joinings, 
buckled  the  girth  tight,  and  led 
him  round  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  where  I  tethered  him  to 
a  tree  and  entered  the  door. 

A  savory  smell  of  hot  meats 
came    from    the    room   and   a 


OF  MY  DEPAR TURE.      223 

bright  wood  fire  drove  away 
the  grayness  of  the  morning. 
Anne  stood  by  the  table,  sHcing 
a  loaf  and  looking  ever  and 
anon  to  the  entrance.  Her 
face  was  pale  as  if  with  sleep- 
lessness and  weeping.  Her  hair 
was  not  so  daintily  arranged 
as  was  her  wont.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  she  had  augured 
the  future.  A  strange  catch — 
coming  as  such  songs  do  from 
nowhere  and  meaning  nothing 
— ran  constantly  in  my  head. 
'Twas  one  of  Philippe  Des- 
portes',  that  very  song  which 
the  Duke  de  Guise  sang  just 
before  his  death.  So,  as  I 
entered,  I  found  myself  hum- 
ming half  unwittingly: 

"  Nous  verrons,  bergere  Rosette, 
Qui  premier  s'en  repentira." 


2  24  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

Anne  looked  up  as  if  startled 
at  my  coming,  and  when  she 
saw  my  dress  glanced  fearfully 
at  my  face.  It  must  have  told 
her  some  tale,  for  a  red  flush 
mounted  to  her  brow  and  abode 
there. 

I  picked  up  a  loaf  from  the 
table.  'Twas  my  one  sacrifice 
to  the  gods  of  hospitality. 
'Twould  serve,  I  thought,  for 
the  first  stage  in  my  journey. 

Anne  looked  up  at  me  with  a 
kind  of  confused  wonder.  She 
laughed,  but  there  was  little 
mirth    in    her   laughter. 

"  Why,  what  would  you  do 
with  the  loaf  ?  "  said  she.  "  Do 
you  seek  to  visit  the  widows  and 
fatherless  in  their  affliction?" 

"  Nay,"  said  I  gravely.      "  I 


OF  MY  DEPARTURE.      225 

would    but    keep    myself    un- 
spotted from  the  world." 

All  merriment  died  out  of  her 
face. 

"And  what  would  you  do?" 
she  stammered. 

"  The  time  has  come  for  me 
to  leave,  Mistress  Anne.  My 
horse  is  saddled  at  the  door.  I 
have  been  here  long  enough ; 
ay,  and  too  long.  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart  for  your 
kindness,  and  I  would  seek  to 
repay  it  by  ridding  you  of  my 
company." 

I  fear  I  spoke  harshly,  but 
'twas  to  hide  my  emotion,  which 
bade  fair  to  overpower  me  and 
ruin  all. 

"  Oh,  and  why  will  you  go  ?  " 
she  cried. 


226  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

"  Farewell,  Anne,"  I  said, 
looking  at  her  fixedly,  and  I  saw 
that  she  divined  the  reason. 

I  turned  on  my  heel,  and 
went    out    from    the    room. 

"  Oh,  my  love,"  she  cried 
passionately,  "  stay  with  me  ; 
stay,  oh,  stay  !  " 

Her  voice  rang  in  my  ear 
with  honeyed  sweetness,  like 
that  of  the  Sirens  to  Ulysses  of 
old. 

*'  Stay  !  "  she  cried,  as  I  flung 
open  the  house-door. 

I  turned  me  round  for  one 
last  look  at  her  whom  I  loved 
better  than  life.  She  stood  at 
the  entrance  to  the  room,  with 
her  arms  outstretched  and  her 
white  bosom  heaving.  Her 
eyes  were  filled  with  an  utter- 


OF  M  Y  DEPAR  TURK.      227 

able  longing,  which  a  man  may- 
see  but  once  in  his  life — and 
well  for  him  if  he  never  sees  it. 
Her  lips  were  parted  as  if  to 
call  me  back  once  more.  But 
no  word  came ;  her  presence 
was  more  powerful  than  any 
cry. 

I  turned  to  the  weather.  A 
gray  sky,  a  driving  mist,  and  a 
chill  piercing  blast.  The  con- 
trast was  almost  more  than  my 
resolution.  An  irresistible  im- 
pulse seized  me  to  fly  to  her 
arms,  to  enter  the  bright  room 
again  with  her,  and  sell  myself, 
body  and  soul,  to  the  lady  of 
my  heart. 

My  foot  trembled  to  the  step 
backward,  my  arms  all  but  felt 
her   weight,    when    that    blind 


2  28  SIR  QUIXOTE. 

Fate  which  orders  the  ways  of 
men  intervened.  Against  my 
incHnation  and  desire,  bitterly, 
unwilHng,  I  strode  to  my  horse 
and  flung  myself  on  his  back. 
I  dared  not  look  behind,  but 
struck  spurs  into  Saladin  and 
rode  out  among  the  trees. 

A  fierce  north  wind  met  me 
in  the  teeth,  and  piercing 
through  my  tatters,  sent  a 
shiver  to  my  very  heart. 

I  cannot  recall  my  thoughts 
during  that  ride  :  I  seem  not  to 
have  thought  at  all.  All  I  know 
is  that  in  about  an  hour  there 
came  into  my  mind,  as  from 
a  voice,  the  words  :  "  Recreant ! 
Fool !  "  and  I  turned  back. 

THE    END. 


Twenty 'first  Edition.     ^Buckram  Series,)    754. 

—  — — — — --J 

THE  PRISONER  OF 

ZENDA. 

By  ANTHONY  HOPE. 

■"A  glorious  story,  which  cannot  be  too  warmly 
recommended  to  all  who  love  a  tale  that  stirs  the 
blood.  Perhaps  not  the  least  among  its  many 
good  qualities  is  the  fact  that  its  chivalry  is  of  the 
nineteenth,  not  of  the  sixteenth  century  ;  that  it 
is  a  tale  of  brave  men  and  true,  and  of  a  fair 
woman  of  to-day.  The  Englishman  who  saves 
the  king  ...  is  as  interesting  a  knight  as  was 
Bayard.  .  .  The  story  holds  the  reader's  atten- 
tion from  first  to  last." — Critic. 


Fifth  Edition.      T2mo.     Scarlet  Clath.     $1.50. 

THE  HONORABLE 

PETER  STIRLING 

By  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

"  Mr.  Ford  is  discreet  and  natural  ...  a  very 
good  novel." — Nation. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  and  most  vital  characters 
that  have  appeared  in  our  fiction." — Dial. 

"  Commands  our  very  sincere  respect  .  .  . 
there  is  no  glaring  improbability  about  his  story 
.  .  .  the  highly  dramatic  crisis  of  the  story.  .  . 
The  tone  and  manner  of  the  book  are  noble.  .  . 
A  timely,  manly,  thoroughbred,  and  eminently 
suggestive  book.   — Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  A  fine,  tender  love  story." —Literary  World. 

"  The  book  is  sure  to  excite  attention  and  win 
popularity." — Boston   A  dvertiser. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  New  York. 


In  the  Buckram  Series.    i8mo,  with  frontis- 
pieces by  W.  B.  Russell.     75  cents  each. 

KAFIR    STORIES.       By  William 
Charles  Scully. 

"  He  writes  of  South  Africa  with  the  sure 
knowledge,  the  sympathy,  and  almost  with  the 
vigor  that  Mr.  Kipling  bestows  upon  his  Hindu 
stories.  .  .  His  strongly  picturesque  and  event- 
ful tale  of  adventure  and  warfare  .  .  .  there  is  no 
false  sentiment  .  .  .  the  narrative  of  their  long 
march,  their  triumphs,  their  betrayal  and  finally 
their  brave  death  is  thrilling."— iV.  V.  Times. 

"  An  extraordinary  piece  of  work  ._  .  .  .South 
Africa  may  be  said  to  have  her  Kipling  in  him.  ' — 
Miss  Gilder  in  N.  V.  IVorld. 

"  There  is  a  fascination  about  them  .  .  .  un- 
like any  of  the  hundreds  of  volumes  of  short 
stories  that  have  been  given  us  during  the  past 
few  years." — Boston  Titties. 

THE  MASTER-KNOT  AND 
"ANOTHER  STORY."  By 
CoNOVER  Duff. 

Two  tales  told  in  letters.  The  first  shows  how 
"  the  master-knot  of  human  fate  "  strangely  linked 
two  lovers  in  a  Long  Island  house  party  with  a 
quarry  riot  in  Ohio.  The  second  is  full  of  breezy 
humor  and  describes  New  York  life,  uptown,  ia 
the  park,  and  at  the  opera. 

"  Happily  imagined  and  neatly  worked  out  .  .  . 
a  high  order  of  work."— A^'fw  York  Tijnes. 

"  Whoever  has  written  these  stories  has  a  deli- 
cate touch  and  a  keen  insight  .  .  .  very  cleverly 
told  indeed,  and  the  uncertainty  is  kept  up  to  the 
last  moment  .  .  .  happy  in  its  strength  and  deli- 
cacy. Altogether  a  precious  little  book,  deahng 
with  wordly  people,  who  can  be  unconventiona.. 
and  loyal  and  consistently  American."— /%z^- 
delphia  Ledger. 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO., 
29  West  23d  Street,  New  York. 


1 

DATE  DUE 

CAYLORD 

PRINTEOINU.S.A 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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